


Seeds of Time

by EffulgentlyDani



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EffulgentlyDani/pseuds/EffulgentlyDani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hellmouth is closed, Anya and Spike are dead, and the remaining gang is scattered far and wide. Buffy’s at the Cleveland Hellmouth with Faith, and she’s on utter autopilot -- slaying vamps by day, drowning her pain by night in a biblical flood of alcohol. Willow’s sunburning in Brazil, and she’s finally getting the chance to mourn the loss of Tara. Xander’s lost in the heart of Africa, seeking an impossible demon. What he finds, instead, is a shaman, a vision quest, the foretelling of a hopeless, loveless future for them all...and a secret: If only Buffy and Spike had been joined together in unconditional love, they all could have been saved.</p>
<p>Time travel, angst and a good bit of fluff ensue in this, my first-ever Spuffy fic, created in response to a challenge posed by the all-too-talented tempestt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Starts out several months after “Chosen,” but without Spike’s amulet-induced reawakening in Angel’s office. From there, it jumps back in time -- specifically, to “Into the Woods” (s05e10), when Riley tries to intimidate our yummy hottie vamp with a plastic stake. From there, it takes off into AU immediately, borrowing bits and pieces (where I see fit -- hey, it’s my story) from canon...but sticking nowhere near it.
> 
> Everything that happened on the small screen has happened here. If you haven't watched the whole series, expect the spoilers to start on page one.
> 
> The title, by the way, is taken from MacBeth by William Shakespeare (Banquo, Act I, scene iii): 
> 
> If you can look into the seeds of time,  
> And say which grain will grow, and which will not,  
> Speak.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Joss (and company), in his infinite wisdom and transcendental artistry, was The Creator. I merely borrowed the characters and smooshed ‘em together into a new storyline. Or, in its more formal version: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

  


**_Is this a dagger which I see before me,_ **

**_The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee._ **

**_I have thee not, and yet I see thee still._ **

**_Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible_ **

**_To feeling as to sight? or art thou but_ **

**_A dagger of the mind, a false creation,_ **

**_Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?_ **

_~ from MacBeth_   
_(MacBeth, Act 2, Scene 1, Lines 33-39)_   
_by William Shakespeare_

 

* * *

 

 

**PART ONE**

  
  


 

**Chapter One: I Have Thee Not and Yet I See Thee Still**

 

The wind whipped and swirled, clearing the dense cloud of dust so only a hand-hewn stake and Buffy’s outstretched arm were left visible in the moonlight. The world was still, lulled by the rhythmic cadence of chirping crickets and the breeze gusting through the foliage. Far off in the distance, a police siren wailed and two car doors slammed. 

The eight vamps who'd just emerged from the crypt in West Park Cemetery likely hadn't planned on a dusty mass demise, but they'd gotten one. Eight idiots, adorned in bandanas and skully caps, baggy jeans and dingy white wife beaters. She'd identified them as fledges from yards away, their advances clumsy and lumbering, though with the almost perfect unison of a practiced dance troupe. And none of them with sense enough to avoid a slayer.

Make that _the_ Slayer, with a capital S.

They'd reminded her of that old 80's gang movie Xander used to watch; the one with the DVD cover full of half-naked hotties clad in leather vests and jeans, heads cropped at various levels of bald and feathered and ‘fro-ed.  _The Warriors_ , she'd eventually remembered, recalling how she'd giggled the first time she'd watched the scene with the thug sing-songing threats to the rival gang, all the while clinking those three bottles in his right hand.

Xander had scowled, told her she had no appreciation for true art. Had meted out a waterfall of trivial cinematic facts like the director's curriculum vitae, the brand name of celluloid film he'd decided to use...perhaps the names of his second cousins' wives. She could no longer recall.

It was a bittersweet memory, this and all the others like it of her life in Sunnydale. A happier, more secure space in time. 

As the group of baby vamps had encroached, two-stepping across the lawn and goading with taunts and jeers, Buffy had been struck with a manic desire to grab three bottles and croon, _“Warriors, come out and pla-eeee-ay…”_

And just like that, in the matter of a split second, that flash of memory had shifted, transformed into the dark alley behind the Bronze. The beam of street light, its perimeter cast in deep shadows. A single fledgling, only just staked and dusted.  _And him_ , his palms slap-slap-slapping together, the sound echoing off the bricks like the clanging bottles. One, two, three claps in the darkness, and with them, his pale, chiseled face emerging from the shadows.

 

_**Clap, clap, clap** Nice work, love._

_Who are you?_

_You’ll find out on Saturday._

_What happens Saturday?_

_I kill you._

 

A shudder wracked her small frame, pierced deep behind her breast, left an even deeper rut of ache as the initial pain faded. She felt marooned by the dragging melancholy, its heavy emptiness weighing down her arm.  
  
Champion that she was, though, she paid no attention to the hindrance, instead clutching the stake and raising her fist at the hapless vamp nearest her. She moved through the motions automatically -- _punch-kick-stake, rinse and repeat_  -- and drew the momentum from the first dusting into the second. Kicked behind her, swung the hand holding her stake into and through the third vampire’s chest. Barely flinched as the fourth vamp struck out, his fist making contact with her cheek in the seconds before she twisted back and staked him, too.

And so it had gone. Always in motion, ever flowing from one practiced movement into the next. Killing one vampire after another, barely noticing the time or the enemies as both passed her by.

Somewhere, way back in the far corners of her consciousness, she was aware she'd fallen into a chasm of despair. An endlessly dark void where no light could shine, where the air smelled of stale old people and she walked around feeling like she had cotton balls wedged down deep in her ears. She couldn’t, no, _wouldn’t_ connect with the world around her. She'd left so much behind, lost too many important pieces of herself to function, to be whole.

Mom. Tara. Anya.  _Deep breath._ Spike.

All of them back there, down there, buried there, deep beneath the dirt and the rubble and the wreckage, in the place that used to be home.

On her first trip through these swamps of sorrow, back when she’d first been resurrected, had been forced to navigate a post-Glory, post-heaven rebirth, all alone, save for her vampire...at least then, she’d had someone at whom to direct the anger.

A ho-bag, she-bitch, sister-murderer with a lopsided ass and a bad perm.

A few so-called friends who’d ripped her from the peace and comfort of eternal rest and forced her to rejoin the battle she’d been _more_ than done fighting.

This time around, there was no one to blame. No one to shove bodily against the wall, throw herself against, beg to make her feel again. No one to help her take on the oceans of shame. No expanse of flesh to batter and bruise, to mar and wound and blacken so its outsides matched her insides. No one to shove between her legs, no velvety tongue to press against her sex, no hard cock to fill her to the hilt, make her feel, make her come, make her remember she existed.

The desolation hadn’t actually hit her right away. She’d probably been in shock -- hell, she might still be -- floating on the afterglow of the battle with the First, feeling as if she’d fucked and sucked her way into a sort of supernatural post-coital bliss. Throbbing with a bone-deep excitement that had lasted for hours, radiating from the depths of her womanhood, shooting in waves of orgasmic bliss to the tips of her fingers and the ends of her toes.

They’d fought hard. They’d fought dirty. They’d won. And they’d done it on their own terms, with a shared power forged in soulfire. Slayer soulfire.

It was in those minutes after the fall of the Hellmouth, on the edge of that crater that was once Sunnydale, where she’d stood with her sisters, her friends, her Watcher. Adrenaline still pumped in tsunami- strength overdrive, a deep crimson flush still tinged each slayers’ cheeks. They'd stood there gazing, twitching, a steady buzz of shared anticipation vibrating around them like catsuits.

Buffy had grabbed the cell phone that was -- luckily -- still lodged in the front pocket of her jeans, and made a quick call to Angel that garnered a group invitation to the Hyperion. “You are always welcome, Buffy, you know that,” he’d said, overcome with relief that they'd made it through. “Come on out now, stay as long as you’d like. As long as you need.”

And so they'd gotten back on that bus, dropped Robin and a few of the more injured girls at the hospital in the next town over, then embarked on the two-hour drive that would take them into the heart of Los Angeles, the city of angels...the city of Angel.

It occurred to her, though much later, that it was the first time she’d ever made the trip without thinking about the “us” that was _Buffy and Angel_. She'd not considered the possible ramifications of accepting his help, didn’t contemplate how he’d feel, what he’d expect, where things might end up. 

She’d later learn that he'd expected much, much more than she could offer him.

In the lobby of the Hyperion Hotel, Buffy had played Mother Hen, feeling for broken bones, wrapping sprains, bandaging wounds. She'd worked her way from sister to slayer to friend, mending and caressing and hugging and consoling. Methodically clearing the residual debris that irritated their bodies and irked their minds.

She’d done it on autopilot, offering what little remained of her heart and her energy, sparing nary a stray speculation on Spike or the Scoobies or Angel. Didn't dare think about anything having to do with regular life, in all its never-ending, relentlessly complicated, Lifetime- turned-SyFy movie-of-the-week glory.

And she'd been absolutely drained when she finally retreated to the private room Angel had provided her. Found him perched at the end of her queen-sized bed, waiting with his hands fisted in his lap and his eyes turned downward to the patterned rug under his Adidas. When she’d taken a few steps into the room, he’d risen, arms outstretched and eyes full of silent, tender support. She’d moved into his arms, though she kept her own tight against her chest, and had allowed him to draw her into his chilly embrace.

They'd stayed like that for a few minutes, neither moving, one of them breathing softly, shallowly. As the quiet surrounded her and reality set in, a sheer emptiness overtook her, cutting a hole through her middle and dropping her heart and stomach to the foor. She'd collapsed, panic attacking full force, the last of her breath leaving her lungs in a whoosh.

When the world started to dim, Angel had swooped her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Laid her softly on the quilt and kissed her lightly on the forehead. As he'd pulled away, she'd had the presence of mind to give him a small, grateful smile, and as she did so, noted that his eyes were full of sorrow and anguish.

Sympathy. For her.

She’d broken down completely then. Took a deep breath that erupted into violent weeping. “I-i- it’s g-g-gone, A-A-Angel,” she’d stammered between sobs. “G-g-gone. Th-th-they’re gone. H- h-h-he’s...h-h-he’s...oh, Angel. H-h-h- he’s-”

“Sshhhh, Buffy, hussssssshhhh. Hush now, breathe,” he’d crooned. “Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe.”

He’d rubbed her back, up and down, up and down, and she’d closed her eyes and concentrated on the movement of his hand and the pattern he was tracing. Steadied herself with a few slow inhales, exhales.

And in the instant he’d sensed her weeping had ceased and her breathing was under control, Angel had drawn back, bent down and touched his lips to hers.

Looking back, she knew he’d likely expected her complete surrender, but her body had gone rogue, erupting instead into another panic attack. She’d crawled up and over the bed, scrambled to the opposite side of the room until the flat of her back was pressed up tight against the drywall, her socked feet slipping against the silky weave of the Persian rug.

“Buffy...no, Buffy. Sweetheart, it’s...it’s okay.”

“Angel, stop. No, stop. Stop!” She'd vaguely noticed her voice creeping to a shriek as he advanced on her, palms out and yielding, moving quickly around the footboard in her direction. “Angel, stop! I said no!”

And just like that, she’d been taken back to the bathroom at home. Another night, another vampire... _her_ vampire...defending herself against a vain attempt to pull her into an intimate embrace she hadn’t been ready to accept.

Too many memories, too many sensations.

The panic had intensified tenfold, and she’d jerked back, hit her head on the wall and blacked out.

She’d come to a few minutes later, lying prone on the bed as Angel hovered with an anxious look on his face. “I’m really sorry, Buffy,” he’d lamented. “I thought you’d want me to...to...well…. I’m-I’m just sorry." He'd wiped his palms against his thighs in an gesture that appeared awkward on a creature who hadn't sweat in two centuries. He asked if there was anything he could bring her, do for her.

Buffy had only shaken her head, climbed out of the bed and walked right by him, evading an invitation back into Angel's arms for the privacy of the locked bathroom. She’d turned on the shower, gotten into the stall and leaned against the cold tile as the scalding water pounded her back, her neck, her ass. Succumbed to the desolation, to the numbness that it provided. She had no remorse, no guilt, no thoughts of anything, least of all about Angel or Angelus or a moment that wouldn't have been pure happiness amidst such terror, such tragedy.

_He wasn’t the one she wanted._

The realization had hit her like a sledgehammer, and it was all she could do to remain standing against the pelting downpour.

Spike was dead. Spike was gone. 

Spike. Wasn’t. Coming. Back.

And so she’d stood there for what felt like hours, brain revving and body numb, weeping and pounding against the tile walls, shouting curses to an ignorant universe until the water turned cold. When she’d emerged, Angel was gone. She’d stumbled across the dark room, fallen into the bed, and had immediately yielded to the eclipse of dreamless sleep.

That was the last time she'd cried, and it was the last time she'd knowingly shown her weakness to anyone else.

The Sunnydale crew enjoyed a short but comfortable stay in LA, helping the AI team when they could as their bodies healed and their minds relaxed. Robin was released after a few days, and Faith had borrowed a car to run and pick him up. She'd returned hours later, the principal in tow, alon gwith a car full of slayerettes with a bad case of cabin fever, their quick healing having puzzled an entire hospital staff.

The reunion hadn't lasted long, and the group eventually started scattering. Giles, Andrew and Dawn had left for England, the two men focused on rebranding the new Council, Dawn on the start of a new semester abroad. Willow and Kennedy planned a beach getaway. Xander hadn't said much; Buffy hadn't pushed.

A few of the younger slayerettes had elected to return to the warmth of home, choosing the arms of Mommy and Daddy over the thrill of the next fray.

The rest of them, Buffy had herded back onto the yellow school bus, bidding a stoic, tear-free goodbye to Angel and the rest of the AI team. She'd then spent the next five days co-piloting to the Cleveland Hellmouth, shouting a series of directions from her spot behind the driver’s seat, fumbling awkwardly with a much-creased road map and the TomTom they’d stolen from Andrew.

She’d even spared a quick smile -- one that didn’t reach her eyes -- when Rona had asked her to drive. Told her she could barely manage her mom’s Jeep on the quiet streets of Sunnydale, let alone an unforgiving school bus over 2,500 cross-country miles. The dreadlocked girl had simply shrugged, and she, Vi, Faith and Robin had taken turns at the wheel instead.

Once in Cleveland, it hadn’t taken long to secure a few apartments in an old, rundown building near the center of the Hellmouth. Took even less time for them to get the lay of the land, less yet to fall into some semblance of a slaying routine. Robin had secured a position in a local high school where some of the younger girls had enrolled as students. Under Giles' control, the Council had even provided health insurance, approved a weekly stipend that helped cover the costs of food, rent, utilities and the occasional road trip.

All in all, the relocation had served its purpose, offering the familiarity of constant demon-hunting opportunities, only this time, laced with a new and strengthening undercurrent of sisterly camaraderie.

And so it went, Buffy and Faith leading a steadily-growing group of virgin slayers, taking turns imparting upon them the mechanics of slayage. Faith trained and slayed with gusto, reflecting an intense passion and sharing her love of the calling with everyone she came in contact with, and in everything she did. Buffy’s approach was decidedly different, done without touching on the emotions, the heart and soul of the calling. For her, it was merely a good way to keep busy, to keep in shape. The monotony of it gave her comfort. Cleveland was, after all, just a change in scenery and little else.

A multitude of slayers meant there was no need for solo patrols, though Buffy kept up a regular route on her own, systematically winding and weaving through the streets and the gravestones. The killing and slaying and stabbing and staking dulled the heartache, allowed her to forget that integral, this-is-who-Buffy-Summers-is piece of her that was left behind in that crater. Night after night, she allowed herself to fall into that same apathetic nothingness, like the time when she was 12 and getting her tonsils out, when the surgeon leaned over and told her to count backwards from 10...9...8....

“All clear, B?” Faith’s voice rang out, interrupting Buffy’s train of thought with its shrill confidence and strength. The brunette slayer strode across the cemetery, tucking a stake into the arm of her leather jacket as she walked.

“It’s clear.” Buffy murmured. She spoke very little these days, her voice always a quiet monotone. She could manage only the necessary words, no intonation, no puns, no snappy comebacks.

No reason to go to the trouble.

“Fall back, chickadees. We’re five by five,” Faith called, waving to the slayerettes behind her before she turned her attention back to Buffy. “Think we’re gonna hit the Doghouse, B, throw a few back. You in?” The neighborhood dive bar smelled like a men’s locker room and looked twice as bad, but the whiskey was cheap and the beer cold. Plus, there was always a bet waiting on a pool table, and you’d be hard-pressed to abide a night without a good back alley brawl.

In other words, it was Faith’s idea of heaven on earth.

Buffy, however, rarely joined them, and tonight would be no different. “I don’t think so.” Her refusal came out like a whisper. She didn’t care if it got lost on the wind as she turned to leave the cemetery. At the sidewalk, she paused, craned her neck, noticed Faith was still watching. “But...thanks. Um, have fun.”

The brunette slayer shrugged and hurried to join the younger girls moving in the opposite direction. Buffy watched as they came to the corner, waited for a few cars to pass, and finally proceeded across the stretch of asphalt.

Faith lagged behind, turning to look back at Buffy once again, so the blonde raised her hand in a weak wave and started shuffling away again. Buffy was only peripherally aware of Faith’s quick two-fingered reply.

She completely failed to notice the slow shaking of her sister slayer’s head, and the way the brunette stood there, bathed in the streetlight as she stared with large, worried doe eyes, long after Buffy had disappeared from view.

 

###

 

_His eyes. His piercing blue eyes, in the moment he’d felt the amulet come to life. The crystal clear blue depths, the way they bore into her, filled with raw emotion, sheer astonishment. The awe that filled his voice when he said, “I can feel it, Buffy.”_

_“What?” Momentary confusion. Buffy's mind raced. Breathe. Swallow._

_Spike looked upward, down to his chest, back at her, his eyes wide with wonder as he clarified. “My soul. It's really there.” He smirked. “Kind of stings.”_

_Buffy's eyes welled with tears, her heart overflowing with pride, and for the millionth time this week alone, she was struck with the realization that Spike was the real deal, the genuine article, a worthy champion, a man of true valor._

_"Spike, come on," she urged, but he wouldn't budge. She tried again, begged, cajoled, pleaded with him to move, to give up, to follow her. The amulet had done its job. The Turok Han were dead. He was done._

_Spike resisted.“Go on, then,” he said. “You’ve beat them back. It’s for me to do the cleanup.”_

_She hesitated, begged again, this time pouring all of her desires, every last drop of supplication she could possibly muster, into her eyes. His voice only became more resolute, more stern. “Gotta move, lamb. I think it’s fair to say school’s out for bloody summer.”_

_“Spike!” She suddenly reached out to touch him, laced her fingers through his, watched as their paired palms burst into flames, ignited with a fire that had once frozen her. Back when she’d first been resurrected, when she’d been unable to feel. Before he'd reminded her how._

_It occurred to her in the instant she said it that it wasn't nearly enough, but she spoke the words regardless. “I love you.”_

_His attention was drawn from their joined hands, his eyes reflecting the flames as he gazed down into her face. Spike's head tilted in that way it always did, his expression soft, sympathetic. “No, you don't. But thanks for saying it.”_

_Another quake of the earth, and their hands were forced apart before Buffy had the chance to argue. Before she could tell him to ditch the amulet, follow her into their own happily ever after. Stop playing the hero. Be hers._

_“Now go!” He was screaming at her, and Buffy's brained seized with the split second choice between fight or flight. Flight won. Suddenly, nothing was more essential than getting out, nothing more relevant than the knowledge that it would soon be too late. She needed to move, like, right now._

_As she raced up the stairs, she could have sworn she heard Spike laugh and mutter, “I wanna see how it ends.”_

_She ran. Always running, mindlessly rushing her feet from one long stride into the next. Moving in the opposite direction of her heart, leaving it behind as Sunnydale crumbled into oblivion around her. Racing out into the sunshine, pelting across the rooftops to follow the yellow school bus, leave the town, escape the--_

Buffy jerked awake, the rooftops popping like a bubble, fading to black as her eyelids struggled to break through the crust that encased her lashes and glued them shut. She dug the side of her hand into the aching sockets, rubbed hard until the graininess scratched her cornea. Rubbed until she could feel the pain, could enjoy the hurt.

It was always the same dream leaving her tattered and torn, night after night. The same stretch of time, beginning with the look in Spike’s eyes when he first realized the depths of his soul, right up to the moment she told him she loved him and he denied her. Refused her.

Right up to the moment she left him.

_fight or flight or fight or flight or fight or flight and why oh why didn't you stay and fight or flight or fight or flight_

A powerful wave of guilt washed over her, and she used its force to throw the edge of the comforter back over itself. She sat up, swung her legs off the end of the bed. Grabbed the neck of the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the table next to her pillow. Put it to her mouth, threw back her head, took a large, burning pull of the brown liquid.

_Bleccch._

Buffy grimaced at the taste, fought against the memories the reaction evoked. Crypt-side confidences, promises of dark world excitement, backroom kitty-funded demon poker. She shook her head hard, closed her eyes, took a breath. Cleared the train of thought, silenced the memories.

A second swig aroused the same grimace, but the memories were less intense. The third swallow went down without a hitch.

Buffy braced herself against the nausea awakened by the fourth mouthful -- always there, always expected -- and she struggled to hold back the knot of phlegm that threatened to emerge. Nodded with satisfaction to no one at all, mentally congratulating herself for keeping the ever-familiar taste of vomit down.

_down down down keep it down keep him down I left him down left him left him left him_

Her stomach settled even as her mind raced, and Buffy reached to set the bottle back down on the bedside table. It bobbled, knocked against the framed photo of a smiling Dawn. She caught it, steadied it on its heavy, square base. Reached for the soft pack of Camels to its left, pinched out a stick, raised it to her mouth. Grabbed his silver Zippo lighter.

_just come for what's mine this flapjack's not ready to flip goldilocks love don't call me love don't call me love_

She pressed the wheel down with her thumb, struck the flint, stared at the flame, held it to the end of the cigarette. One second, two. Inhaled, exhaled. Let the scent surround her, the memories with it. Sweet tobacco, musky leather, honeyed whiskey.

Him.

_him him him too much too much too much him him him not enough alcohol too many memories_

With a tiny cough, Buffy lowered the cigarette from her mouth, left it to burn in the overflowing ashtray, its purple plume of smoke creating clouds around her head, enrobing her with the familiar smell of him.

Buffy closed her eyes, reached again, this time for the bottle of water she’d set on the table beside the whiskey. It took three wobbly grabs before she made contact with the plastic bottle, and it made a crinkley sound in her fist...a brash, loud, painful, rumpling noise that would have hurt her ears if they weren't constantly numb, constantly popped. Her body was exhausted and famished, leaving her grip weak as she twisted the plastic cap, put the rim to her lips, took a long swig of the clear, tepid liquid. She waited for the icky feeling to pass, returned the water bottle to its original, upright position. Grabbed the whiskey bottle once again.

Two more swallows. Placed the bottle back on the table.

Buffy sat, hunched over the side of the bed, waiting for the six shots of hard liquor to hit. Six shots, sixteen minutes. She’d timed it, several months ago, during an infinitely more lucid phase. It took sixteen minutes for the dizziness to hit. Seven minutes more to numb the ache, that utter and absolute oppression always threatening to overtake. Another five for the world to fade into a fuzzy nothingness. Only then could she retreat back into slumber once again.

And if she was lucky, she might get an hour or two of rest before the dream started back up.

Then she’d wake again, take another few shots, wallow in guilt, wait for the nothingness, struggle back to sleep. Wake to the tune of another hangover...another headache. Shower, get dressed. Train the slayerettes. Patrol. Come home. Start again.

Nothing new. Nothing but the ache and the guilt and the sorrow and the loneliness. A world of numbness. Not alive, just _there_.

She’d never feel alive again.

She’d forgotten how without him there to remind her.


	2. Chapter Two: Sensible to Feeling as to Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd planned to space my postings out to once per week -- I have several chapters written, but I do succumb to a bit of an addiction to procrastination every now and again. Your reviews are simply too inspiring to keep silent, though, so here's another chapter. Enjoy! And don't forget to review...it does a world of good for the writer's soul and gets the muse pumping much, much faster.

**Chapter Two: Sensible to Feeling as to Sight**

 

Years ago -- she was pretty young, maybe eight or nine -- Willow had a bright red yo-yo. For weeks after her mom had given it to her, she’d studied it, winding and unwinding the string, prying the plastic halves apart, examining the tiny ball bearings and screws that held it all together. Entirely uninterested in learning tricks like Walking the Dog or Around the World, she’d been engrossed in taking it apart, analyzing its components, and then putting them all back together again.

She’d figured out the mechanics right away -- easy enough for a girl who’d mastered multiplication at age four and was reading Tolkien by eight -- and had been fascinated by the constant alternation between translational and rotational kinetic energy. The way inertia fought the force of gravity and friction caused it to unwind or spin or free fall. There was a comforting science to it. A series of definitive calibrations relating to weight and force that guaranteed a correctly-thrown trick would always, always work, exactly the same way, every single time.

So it didn’t surprise Willow to find that she and astral projection were a bit less mixy. Turned out that the thrust and recoil of it was significantly less mathematical, infinitely less black and white. And much, much easier said than done.

Still, it was a lot like that yo-yo. Made her feel as if she’d launched her spirit into the universe, and it had failed to wind back correctly, leaving her in knots, all discombobulated and wonky-like. Disentangling herself required a great deal more patience than manual dexterity -- patience, she'd found, was truly a virtue -- and she rarely went in or came out of it with any certainty of having adequately secured the slip knot that kept her tethered.

It was in this shaky state that she sat there on her yoga mat, having just made the return trip back to actual consciousness. As she forced a deep breath of air into her lungs, she concluded that this most recent out-of-body experience had been more grueling, more emotionally exhausting than any before, and for a full five minutes, she just let herself _be_. Inhaling. Exhaling. Stretching. Steadying herself against the wall behind her. Visualizing cleansing thoughts.

Mentally erasing the tableau to which she’d just borne witness: Buffy, binge drinking alone in the darkness, a hollow in her cheeks and an emptiness in her eyes. The rancid stench of vomit, rotting food, stale cigarettes, hard alcohol.

It had been several days since they'd spoken, weeks since they'd last seen one another. Willow had been thinking about the blonde slayer all day and had imagined Buffy as she'd prepared herself for the astral plane. She'd closed her eyes, shed the shell of her body, and then -- wham! -- she'd been Cleveland-bound and gagging on Buffy filth four seconds later.

Now, though, Willow shook the thought away, focused instead on the sound of crashing waves outside the window, the faint scent of saltwater, the tackiness of the humidity. These sensations, familiar after several weeks on the Brazilian shore, grounded her and centered her faculties.

In the time after Wrathful Willow, when she’d had to drudge her way back from all that was dark and nefarious, she’d taken to this quiet introspection like a moth to a flame. Giles had patiently trained her on Taoist meditation techniques, demonstrating how to visualize her inner essences and commune with the deities she called upon in her magicks. It had worked to slowly purge the blackness and reconnect her with Mother Earth. Later, the discipline had buoyed her through her return trip to SunnyD. Just last year, they'd kept her head above water through the fight with the Turok Han and the First.

After that particular...debacle, she’d needed more than meditation to unwind the knots accrued. She and Kennedy had nearly sprinted from Sunnydale, making their way down and into Brazil, where they hopped from beachside village to beachside village, finally settling in a quaint little town just outside of Rio de Janeiro. They’d rented a small cottage, paid in full for a month, and had planned to get their fill of sunshine, smoochies and sexy time before joining Giles in England to help train the next generation of Potentials-cum-Slayers.

She supposed, as they say, that it was the thought that counted, realizing only a few days in that the flame she and Kennedy had lit in Sunnydale was slowly snuffing out. With the intimacy missing, Willow found it difficult to look at the brown-haired beauty with more than just superficial attraction.

One night, when Xander had called to check in between Yuma and Portland...Albuquerque...Seattle? Anyways, she’d briefly mentioned her concern with the waning Kennedy sparkage. He'd gone all soldiery, telling her that their relationship had been born in the depths of wartime, was doomed to fade the moment the stress of the fight had ebbed...yadda, yadda, yadda.

He’d been right, of course. And if she'd been really honest with herself, she’d known it all along. Well, not “known it” in the sense of having the slightest idea...but she’d known there was something she didn’t know. If that made any sense.

The next evening, after a particularly dismal afternoon with Kennedy, an argument had ensued about Willow’s continued use of magicks -- though she’d been all for it during the battle in Sunnydale, Kennedy had been much less supportive after the fact. The redhead had refused to acquiesce, so Kennedy had left, nursing what she’d sworn was her biggest-ever heartbreak, with a suitcase, Daddy's credit card and a bag of weed she'd procured from the next village.

Willow, relieved, had stretched a small smile over her face, waved as her ex-lover walked away, and then taken to nursing her own hurts...which, in this case, were a bad case of sunburn and a perpetually broken heart that had never been given the chance to properly grieve.

Aloe vera provided the necessary balm for the external pain; the internal cure still remained a mystery.

An email arrived three days later from Faith, confirming Kennedy’s arrival at the Cleveland Hellmouth. Taking it as her cue to do her own moving on, Willow had cranked up the tunes -- you just couldn’t beat classic Dingos -- and danced her way around the cottage, packing up the last three weeks of her life.

Then she’d wasted an hour Skyping with Althanea, shot a quick email to Andrew, and called Giles to tell him she’d be making her way there later that same week. That yes, she was fine, and no, Kennedy wouldn't be joining her after all.

It was time to get back to reality, even if she would rather spend the next sixty years in prison, breaking rocks and making special friends with Roscoe the Weightlifter, than go back to slayer support services on a full-time basis.

But Giles needed her help and she took comfort in his confidence. And anyways, she thrived on channeling that quiet thrum of the earth’s magick for the greater good. Its steady vibration reminded her that she was part of something bigger, and she’d have missed it more than she missed math class and research parties and homework all put together.

She’d have missed it almost as much as she missed Tara.

And, goddess, did she miss her. Missed the soft and quiet warmth of her arms, the cushion of her ample chest. Craved the languid, reverential lovemaking that had evolved from their stable relationship. Longed for Tara’s kiss, her caress, the tenor of her sweet voice.

But it didn’t hurt as much anymore. Well, at least not as much as it had when she’d first lost her. _That_ suffering had, fortunately, been finite. Brutal, disabling and black-veiny-making, for sure, but she’d eventually gotten to the point where she could breathe and get out of bed in the morning. There had been a lot of days she hadn’t been able to.

Now it just felt as if she’d lost a foot and had learned to dance with a limp.

 _Must help Buffy_ , she reminded herself, clearing the reverie. Willow grabbed her cell phone from the table near the door and, as she dialed Xander’s number, realized she had no idea where he was in his travels. She wasn't surprised to hear the line go immediately to his tinny voice mail message, and she waited as he informed her of his vacation, and that a return call might take some time.

 _He’s no better off than the rest of us_ , she thought to herself. He, too, had taken his own losses hard and, like Willow and Buffy, had run from his suffering and the people who loved him instead of facing the music. _Well, they say home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in,_ she thought. _Time to cue the tunes and starting facin’ the music._

At the beep, she said, "Xand, uh, hey, hon. It's Will. Not real sure where you are right now. Really hope you get this soon. So, uh, listen, we have a bit of a problem. Well, not a _we problem_ , as in you, Xander, me, Willow, but more like a Buffy problem. Only not a Buffy-we-need-you-to-slay-a-beastie kind of problem. Quite literally a _Buffy_ problem.” _Ramble much, Willow?_ “Anyways, um, well, you have to help me figure this out. Call me."

She hung up and tucked the smartphone into her bra strap and then stood, rolled up her yoga mat. Then she flipped the light off, pulling the door behind her as she exited the empty bedroom. As she did, Willow offered up her usual prayer to the goddess to grant repose to Tara's soul. Added an extra special request to keep Buffy safe as well.

Then she dialed the number for Delta and began making plans to go save her best friends.

 

###

 

Xander had been through some crazy ass, miserable shit. He had a three-inch scar on his belly from the time a date went demon in an attempt to sacrifice him for the First. He'd nearly had his life sucked out by a truly scrumptious, if he did say so himself, Inca mummy come to life. Had once been stricken with syphilis, smallpox and malaria...all at the same time.

That shit had _nothing_ on the African desert.

 _Merciful Zeus, it's fucking hot here,_ he thought as he sat at a sidewalk cafe and fanned his sweaty face with a tourist map he’d grabbed several hundred miles ago. He nodded his thanks when the server returned with his drink and sandwich. Lifted the glass of water as he dialed Giles’ number with his other hand. Waited a few beats for the ringing to cease, cringed when the familiar British voice answered.

Wow, did that ever bring back the ache.

He’d run from the comfort of his friends, family, routine. It had been too overwhelming, too agitating, too _everything_. Reminded him too much of what he’d lost, and made him sad when he couldn’t afford to be. So once he'd been sure the girls were settled, he’d gotten angry and he’d gotten gone.

After a quick call to the airline, he’d grabbed his wallet and his passport, packed a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush, then tightened the band around his eyepatch so it dug painfully into his cheek and left a rut near his tear duct. He remembered hoping it would bruise. It had.

First stop was Seattle, not because there was anything he wanted to see or because he’d never been there before. Simply because it was the first available flight out of LAX, he had an empty credit card -- paid off months before, thanks to Anya -- and he needed someplace to go. Several hours later, and with the majority of a three-hour layover in Seattle behind him, Xander had hopped aboard the next available flight and found himself on his way across the ocean to Africa.

It had seemed like the right thing to do. Maybe something was drawing him there. Perhaps a part of him knew instinctively that it was where he needed to be. That sounded kinda nice.

A few weeks before the battle with the First, Spike had regaled a room full of Potentials with the tales of his own trip to Africa. Told them about the grant-wishing demon, about the tests and trials and tribulations and torments and...well, a bunch of other T words that sounded fucking _cool_ in a British accent. He’d told them how he’d eventually gotten what he’d come for: his soul.

So as far as Xander was concerned, it was as good a place as any to start. He figured that if an evil-turned-neutered-turned...okay, somewhat helpful master vampire could get his biggest wish granted, surely it could happen for a regular human, too. He’d put in the time, done enough to qualify in the “above and beyond” category with Captain Peroxide, hadn't he?

And no, the irony wasn't lost on him. Xander had spent his whole life -- so it was more like the last seven years, but who the fuck’s counting? -- enduring a rather tumultuous relationship with demonkind.

Okay, he’d had a fucking chip on his shoulder.

He’d hated all things demonic and hadn’t been afraid to say so. And now, he travelled the world in search of a demon's aid...to beg a demon's favor...because another demon had gotten lucky doing the same damn thing. Go figure.

He’d landed in Kenya, immediately phoned Giles and been put in contact with a few recently Slayer-fied Potentials stationed just south of the airport. They’d been friendly enough, having heard stories about Buffy and her ragtag team of Scoobies. In return for a repaired coffee table and a few replacement windows, they’d put him in touch with a group of loose-skinned demons -- a la Clem -- who had, in turn, referred him to a coven of witches in Tanzania. They'd fed him, given him a bed for the night, and put him in touch with some friendly Ithykwiz demons just north of Zimbabwe.

And so it went, over and over, passing from one home or hovel to the next. Xander had, in fact, grown accustomed to the constant shuffling, that steady movement over unfamiliar terrain and into unfamiliar habitats. Always a stranger, on the outside looking in. Where he’d once relied on sarcasm and humor to bridge gaps, he now remained silent. People probably assumed he was aloof, detached. He no longer cared.

The anger made it unnecessary.

Alexander Harris was completely complacent, speaking only when absolutely necessary. He'd have plenty of time to talk later, once he'd found someone who could help him overcome this staggering disappointment that had become his life. Someone who could say more than, "I don't know, but I might know someone who does..."

He hadn’t found anyone yet. What he _had_ found, however, as he made his way into the southern part of the continent, was sand. Lots and lots of sand. And small bunches of green vegetation strewn here and there, with wildlife grazing over vast, dry valleys and little water in sight. Vehicles -- they called 'em _bakkies_ in these parts -- trailed by billowing dust, their wheels digging trenches in the sand. And, every now and again, a bicycle bearing a stranger with skin the color of freshly brewed coffee, an upturned crescent of white, white teeth spanning a ruggedly beautiful face.

But mostly just lots and lots of sand.

He'd caught a bus somewhere outside of Zimbabwe and settled himself in the back seat between a murky window and an ebony-skinned woman with a belly so big she looked to be nearing her eighth trimester with quadruplets. Three of her kids sat on the bench in front of them, taking turns peering over the plastic seat and giggling at Xander.

It wasn't hard to ignore them. The mind-numbing anger sort of just...obscured everything.

So there he sat, staring out the window and avoiding the game of peekaboo six inches from his forehead, when he noticed that the sand outside his window was almost completely red. It had a vague familiarity, all that redness, as if the individual grains had been saturated with blood, then the blood had been washed away to leave a burnt orange tinge to everything.

The same orange of the faded upholstery covering that ratty lounge chair back in the basement apartment. God, what a dump that place had been. Filled with secondhand crap like his uncle’s old fold-out sofa, a hot burner that only worked half the time, and that goddamn orange chair.

He and Anya had once fucked on that chair. Had themselves a good, raunchy shag session that had occupied him so completely he hadn't noticed the broken spring digging into his left ass cheek. _Fuck but that Anya had gold between her legs. Motherfucking gold._

But he forced the memory away, shoving it into the dark recesses of his mind like he'd shoved that ratty chair to the end of the driveway on garbage day. And before he knew it, the bus had stopped in a fairly populous town, and he'd waved a smile-less goodbye to the kids and their swollen mother, and set out to find somewhere to sit and make a phone call. A small cafe had beckoned, so he'd entered, ordered a glass of water and a sandwich, and then phone Giles.

“G-man, it’s Xander. Made it.” He knew the smile he forced into his voice came across phony. Didn't care. “How goes it, Watcher?”

“Xander, thank heavens you’ve arrived safely. I’d gotten word of a Haxil beast impregnating women in southern Malawi. Bloody hell, I’d hoped you’d missed it. Nasty buggers, those Haxil.” The last sentence came across the connection a little lower than the rest. Like the mouthpiece of Giles’ phone had shifted away from his lips. Wiping his glasses, no doubt.

A few moments of small talk were all Xander could manage, though, and Rupert knew it. Instead of forcing him to struggle through a lengthy conversation, the older man immediately offered the contact details for a nearby colleague and then wished him well.

Xander didn’t mince words. He thanked him, hung up and dialed the local exchange, then waited for the operator to connect him to Giles’ Watcher friend, a British ex-pat named Patrick Strum with a voice slightly deeper than Rupert’s.

“Giles told you to ring me? Blimey, it’s good t’hear the ol’ chap is well,” he lilted. “How can I help ya, mate?”

But he hadn’t known anything. Same as the rest... _always the same_...the watcher only knew the friend of a friend who might be able to help. Had directed him to a shaman living within an ancient hunter-gatherer tribe further into the Kalahari Desert. Assured him that, if there was a demon out there with the power to grant a vampire his soul, the shaman would know where to find him.

Xander thanked him for his time, hung up, and forced a few bites of tasteless food down his gullet. He wasn't hungry -- he was never hungry -- but he knew his body required the fuel. Once he’d finished and paid the bill, he left, found a couple of friendly guys loading a Jeep just outside of the bus station. Within the hour, he was seated in the backseat, bounding across the desert yet again.

Perhaps _seated_ was a bit of a stretch. Xander’s ass had spent more time airborne than in contact with the bench, hands grasping the oh-shit handles in an effort to keep his body -- and his lunch -- inside.

Fenyang, the dark-skinned fellow occupying the driver’s seat, had a penchant for driving the Jeep at an especially accelerated pace, regardless of the ruts in the dirt road. The rousing navigation didn’t seem to phase his buddy, either. The lighter-skinned man -- whose name sounded something like “Kahfentsay” -- kept turning in the seat with a wide smile, entirely unaffected by the constant bobble of the Jeep over the relentless terrain.

Xander considered cursing, bitching at Fenyang to take it easy, but his words fell short as the driver suddenly turned his attention from the road, pointed ahead and began conversing animatedly with his co-navigator. Their language sounded peculiar, jilted, yet curiously comforting to Xander’s untrained ear.

Obviously content with Kafentse's answer, Fenyang glanced in his rearview mirror and caught Xander's eye. His smile wasn’t visible in the small bit of glass, but his dark pupils sparkled as he gestured ahead of him again with the hand not actively engaged in steering.

A small village of straw huts slowly mushroomed into view, and Xander watched as a group of half-naked kids ran to and fro, crossing the road leading up to it, shouting and waving excitedly at the Jeep drawing near.

“This is our stop, my friend.” Fenyang spoke warmly, sparing a quick but friendly wave out the open window as the vehicle passed the youngsters. “You will find the shaman there, and a tribe that will be kind, give you rest and food and water. The shaman is a good man, my friend, and he will help you to find what you have come here looking for.”

Xander nodded but remained silent, partly from the numbness in his heart and partly because he feared an open mouth and an unexpected rut in the road put him at risk of biting his tongue clean off. He braced himself, feet wide and hands splayed against the seat in front of him.

A hundred or so more feet and he’d reach the small village, the straw huts, and the shaman he hoped would help him find an impossible demon.

 

 

_TBC_

 


	3. Chapter Three: Is This a Dagger Which I See Before Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’m taking a few liberties here. First, I’ve never been to Cleveland. Second, I’ve also never been to Brazil. Thanks to Wikipedia, Google Maps (gotta love that satellite view to beef up the setting descriptions!) and a few other somewhat unreliable and definitely uncited sources, I know enough about both to make me reeeeeally dangerous. I’ve been able to get a vague lay of the land...but they may not be accurate, so I apologize to anyone who lives there, has visited there, or is in any way offended by any mistakes I might’ve made. When you’re loyal to a ‘hood, you’re loyal to a ‘hood. I get it.
> 
> Also, just a reminder that we’re not using the rather important part of the Angel S5 storyline where Spike appears, a la amulet, in the Poof’s office. I am, however, borrowing the fact that the AI team has gone through everything else in the Jossverse, including a post-Connor memory mushing followed by the mass exodus to Wolfram & Hart.

**Chapter Three: Is This a Dagger Which I See Before Me?**

Buffy tightened the drawstring on her hoodie and shoved her hands into its kangaroo pocket as she stepped through the entrance to West Park Cemetery. The wind had a chillier bite to it tonight -- this season stuff still felt odd after a childhood spent in always-summer southern California -- and the weather seemed to heighten the eeriness of walking through a graveyard at night.

The placard on the Ridge Road entrance said the place was built in 1900, and while the multitude of crumbling, old headstones surely attested to its age, Buffy knew it was by no means the oldest in the city. Cleveland’s prime geographic location on the Erie Canal had made it an early transportation hub of the Great Lakes area, and a handful of inactive cemeteries bore markers dating back as far as the late 1790’s and early 1800’s.

The Slayer’s primary focus, of course, was on those more recent residents under newly-turned dirt.

Of the several burial sites in Cleveland, West Park Cemetery, in particular, was her favorite to patrol. A walk through its vast, hundred-plus acres, filled with stones and flowers and memories, often felt like traversing a whole new city. Sunnydale’s deceased had enjoyed a much smaller-scale repose -- at most, the city’s four cemeteries spanned a few dozen acres each -- and there was always a view of town, regardless of where you stood. In West Park, surrounding Cleveland was only visible when you were butted up to the gates at the cemetery’s perimeter...and even then, all you’d really see was factories, a small mobile home park, and trees. Lots and lots of trees, as far as the eye could see, and as tall.

Some nights, she’d sit against one of the thick trunks, gaze up into the stars and simply breathe in the peace and quiet. Soak it all up like a warm and fragrant bubble bath that made her fingers and toes all puffy and pruney. 

This evening, the sky had remained blue for some time, night’s dark curtain taking a bit longer to fall than usual. She’d spent several minutes winding around the trees at the edge of the forest, drawing in the pure and sweet air, letting nature absorb some of the sadness she expelled in the wake of every exhale. The twilight sky was clear, stars just starting to peek out in that hour or so after things got quiet, before the creepy crawlies came out to play. If she stayed really still, tiny wild animals, not quite ready to succumb to hibernation, would creep closer to inspect the world around her, and the crisp, almost-spicy scents wafting on the breeze told tales about the coming of fall.

It was hard to be so immersed in the sheer beauty of the universe and not have him there to share it with. Spike did so love nights like these.

A veil of darkness had eventually descended, though, and her heavy heart and that sense of slayer responsibility had returned with a vengeance. Buffy walked, her mind shrugging off the painful memories, her feet silent in the grass as she stepped from gravestone to gravestone in search of a marker bearing Alton Fisher’s name. The 30-something high-school-dropout-turned-fry-cook-extraordinaire had seen more of the inside of a jail cell than out -- frankly, after a few months at the DMP, she understood the impetus behind his transition from fast food to felonies. His most recent bought with liberty had ended rather abruptly only three days before. Alton's body had been found in a downtown alleyway, a chunk torn out of his neck and his veins utterly devoid of life-affirming fluid.

The official statement had been wild animal attack. Clearly, Cleveland -- like Sunnydale -- preferred turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to the things that went bump in the night. Buffy knew better.

Whether or not he’d fledge, however, she  _didn’t_  know, since a vampire bite didn’t always a vampire make. The rising time of a newly-formed vampire differed from body to body. Some popped up, fanged and frisky, the same night they were made. Others seemed to need another day or two in the ground before they were all systems go. Buffy had never seen one stay under more than three days, though, and Fisher’s grave had remained unperturbed during her last two patrols. If the dead dude was gonna vamp out, she figured it was gonna be tonight.

A familiar epitaph on a nearby tombstone told her she was only a few yards from Alton’s gravesite, so she stopped and crouched low in waiting. Things had been quiet for the space of about ten seconds when she heard a subterrestrial moan and saw a large, dirty hand emerge from the black soil.

Buffy leapt over, making quick work of pulling the man up and out, then jamming a stake deep into the fledgling’s left lung. Her movements, as usual, were robotic, the resulting grains of dust equally automatic and expected.

The vamp bitch that attacked her from behind, however, was not. A slender, delicate arm --  _so_  much stronger than it looked -- came up and around her chest, a wiry hand with nails the color of pomegranates wrapping around Buffy’s chin and pulling it to the side.

“Mmm, you come to give Miss Dezzie a nummy treat?” A raspy female voice, sounding as if it had been sandpapered by a hundred or so too many cigarettes in the time before she’d been turned, sent tingles down Buffy's spine. The vamp sniffed at her neck and her cold body instantly tensed. When next she spoke, the creature sounded breathier, her voice awash with arousal. “Mmmm. A nummy  _slayer_  treat.”

“Don’t think so, bitch,” Buffy retorted quietly, thrusting an elbow back into her assailant's stomach. The vampire released her immediately, the force of the blonde’s strike throwing her back more than eight feet, her body colliding with the edge of a tall gravestone.

“Oh, I see how it’s gonna be. You wanna play dirty?” The vampire’s yellow eyes glowed as she pushed herself off the marble structure, the tip of her tongue seductively pressed against smiling fangs. She marched in place a few times, all the while leering at Buffy, her stringy black hair fluttering in dirty tangles as she warmed up her shoulders with a few solid shrugs. She suddenly crouched, beckoning to the Slayer with a curled forefinger. “Bring it, cunt.”

“Gladly.” Buffy drew another stake from her sleeve and set her body into automatic motion, stretching through a series of repeated high kicks with one leg --  _pow, pow, pow_ , she thought with each thrust. Using the momentum of the last kick, Buffy swung her foot smoothly into a roundhouse, dropped, crouched low and changed feet, extending the other leg to knock the female off balance. Vamp Ho never even had time to react.

Then Buffy pounced and straddled the vampire’s chest, raised her arm above her head with the stake pointing downward, making ready to strike. Suddenly the creature curled, fighting against the weight and strength of Buffy's legs, fangs extended completely and mouth open wide.

An instant later, and before Buffy could defend herself, the bitch bit the inside of her knee. Bit hard, tearing a chunk of meat out of it as the vampire pulled the upper half of her undead self back down to the ground beneath.

Buffy screamed, the pain in her knee an agonizing, searing explosion. It was too dark to see the damage clearly, but she’d been there, done that enough to know it was probably pretty serious. Before shock could take hold, Buffy refocused and staked the bitch, taking an evil pleasure in the terror that filled the vamp’s eyes as she dusted.

Through the resulting cloud, Buffy’s butt slammed, the sudden, deep bend of her leg sending the pain in her knee into quadruple overdrive. She gritted her teeth as she drew her foot out from under her, straightened her leg and pulled her cell phone from her front pocket. Her eyes were fuzzy and her hands were weak -- she’d obviously lost a lot of blood -- and it took several seconds for her to swipe the device open and initiate a call. With the phone raised to her ear, Buffy waited until Faith answered on the third ring.

She was barely able to eke out the words “West Park Cemetery” before she blacked out.

###

 

The traffic just outside Rio de Janeiro made Willow’s trip into the city a nightmare. It took nearly two hours on the Linha Vermelha highway before the aeroporto came into view, and another hour before she'd pulled the tiny VW into the rental car return.

“Entrada e saída,” she said aloud as she read the  _entrance_  and  _exit_  signs edging the parking lot. She rolled the R between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, having mentally flipped the Desi Arnaz accent switch in her brain.

In the weeks she’d spent in Brazil, Willow had mostly kept to the outskirts of civilization, avoiding excessive communication and the need to learn much Portuguese. She’d memorized a few basic phrases and, of course, a handful of curse words, but Kennedy had been fluent in a number of Latin languages -- “Rich girl problems,” she’d always said -- and they’d gotten by just fine. Now, as the redhead forfeited her tiny slice of the country, she regretted not having learned more. It was such a beautiful language.

The terminal was busy with travelers rushing to and fro, and Willow bravely joined the throng, hurrying through the check-in line and making her way to the gate. The TV screen over the waiting area confirmed an on-time arrival in Los Angeles, so she phoned Fred to pass on the news.

“Willow! It’s so nice to hear from ya,” said Winifred Burkle, a subtle Southern twang giving her sweet voice a melodious lilt. “What time you gettin’ in tomorrow?”

“Still looking like it’ll be on time. Around four, Freddie,” Willow assured her. “Think you can maybe come? It’d be groovy to see a familiar face, and I don’t think I can take the big guy’s Broody Bob act just yet.”

Fred giggled. “Would you believe he's actually smiled a few times over the last coupla days? We got some pretty fancy digs ‘round here at work, and his office and his new apartment have magically tinted windows. You should see him, just stands and stares at the sun. Oh, and he’s got a bunch of shiny sports cars with all kinds of letters and numbers in the names. And, golly, Nina's been a godsend, really takes his mind off the broodiness, too.”

The woman’s happiness made Willow smile. “Nina? Who’s Nina?”

“Oh, she’s a werewolf we helped a while back. Lives in the suburbs with her sister and her niece. Stays with us a few nights a month when the moon's full. Real pretty girl. Nice, too. Has a bit of a hankerin’ for Mr. Tall, Dark and Despondent.”

“Aw, that’s sweet. I’m glad to hear he’s still saving the pretty girls.”

“Girls, guys...puppies. He’s pretty much an equal-opportunity saver.” Fred giggled again. “Listen, I don’t want to run up your cell bill. I can come getcha tomorrow, that won’t be a problem!”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” The intercom beeped, then an accented female made an announcement that boarding was commencing. “Uh, they’re calling my flight anyways, Freddie, I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay?”

“Okay!” Fred said. “Bye, Willow. Have a safe trip. See ya tomorrow.”

The line cut off with a click and Willow tossed the phone back into her carry-on. “Obrigada e adeus Brasil,”  _Thanks and goodbye, Brazil,_ she translated in her head _, but there's no place like home._

###

 

“God, B, that was a close one, dontcha think?” Faith reached across the passenger seat as she spoke, securing the belt across Buffy’s hips. As she pulled back, she inadvertently knocked the blonde against the console, the movement setting the newly injured knee into painful throbs. Buffy moaned, her head lolling to one side with a deep grimace.

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry.” Faith reached for the lever under the seat, quickly lowered the back a few inches to let some of the weight off Buffy’s lower half. Checking to make sure all of the blonde slayer was inside the car, Faith pressed the door shut until she heard it click securely.

A deep breath suddenly seemed appropriate, and Faith drew it in slowly, held it. Took a second one before throwing a grateful glance to the sky, the quick bob of her head a silent  _thank you_  to the Powers That Be for keeping an eye on her girl.

Then she hurried around the back of the car and opened the driver’s side door. She picked up the anxious rambling as if she’d never stopped talking, her voice naturally sultry. “I don’t know, B. You really got lucky. Five minutes in a graveyard, all by yourself? I mean, c’mon. What would happened if I hadn’t’a been so close by, huh? Somethin’ woulda gotten a whiff of your bloody Kibbles n’ Bits. Sittin’ there looking positively edible, woulda drained you dry, pretty little slayer, smellin’ all tasty and shit up against that fucking tree.”

Her words had started running together, and Faith heard her voice getting shrill, felt her tears damming, so she quieted for a second and inhaled deeply. “Why you gotta patrol on your own all the time? Always on your own, even though you got dozens o’ chicks who’d  _kill_  to slay at your side." Faith gave Buffy a chance to answer, but the blonde remained silent. "C’mon, B. You got more brains in your left tit than it took to come up with that plan.”

She was right, and Buffy knew, deep down, that she should feel more grateful to Faith for getting to her when she had. The abrupt phone call had roused the brunette slayer on her night off. It had taken less than 30 seconds to grab the first set of keys she could find -- “And let’s thank fuck that Vi’s Civic had gas,” Faith had said, her eyes rolling -- and another five minutes to drive across town to Buffy.

In the meantime, the blonde had laid unconscious against the tree. For five minutes. In the dead of night. In a cemetery on the Hellmouth.

She’d also apparently remained motionless for the handful of minutes it took Faith to lift and carry her to the car, and had really only come around in just enough time to watch herself get stuffed, headfirst, into the small red compact. Subtle shifts in her body had indicated to Faith that she’d woken up, and the brown-haired slayer had immediately lapsed into anxious rambling.

"'S called a fucking death wish, Buffy, and I'm pretty sure you got one." And then, leaving the statement hanging in the air between them, Faith stopped talking. For this, Buffy and her friend, Mr. Pounding-Out-Of-My-Temples-Headache, were infinitely thankful.

Faith didn't, in fact, even so much as look in the Buffy’s direction during the rest of the trip back to their apartment building. And while each gazed into the darkness with vastly different thoughts in mind, the fact that it took more than 15 minutes to make the return drive was lost on neither. The long, speed-limited journey only served as a testament to the recklessness under which Faith had made the first, five-minute leg of the trip.

Faith waited until she’d dragged Buffy up two flights of stairs, unlocked the blonde’s apartment door, and then deposited her on her living room sofa before letting loose again. “I mean, I get that you’re upset.” She counted on her fingers. “Your heart’s broken, you lost your home, mom and baby sis aren’t around. I get it, B, I really do. But fuck, your death wish is gonna put someone else in danger if you don’t watch it.”

 _Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp, that look of peace. And part of you is desperate to know,_ he’d said.  _Every slayer has a death wish. Even you._

“I can handle myself,” Buffy replied, her voice labored with a pain far deeper than the one in her knee. “It’s not as if anything happened that hasn’t happened to everyone else. Girls get hurt all the time. I mean, accidents--fuckin’ A,” Buffy winced, her efforts to remove her shoes interrupted by a sharp pain radiating from the bite. She waited it out. It became more bearable after a few seconds. “Accidents happen, don’t they? What was I supposed to do when that vamp whore snuck up on me? I was dusting a fledge. S’not as if they’re wearing bells around their necks or anything.”

“Oh, shut up, would you? You’ve been like this since we left Sunny D. And c'mon, you know I’m not talking about accidents, either. Sure they happen, and yeah, they even happen to you. But that’s not the fucking problem, and you know it.”

Buffy didn’t reply. Sure, she knew it was the truth. She just didn’t care.

“So what’s the deal here, B?” Faith waited for a reply that never came, so she shrugged and stood, took a few steps into the tiny kitchen. Buffy didn’t watch, but she could hear her rummaging around. Heard her slamming drawers and cupboard doors. Heard the faucet engaging, the water hitting first the bottom of the basin, then the belly of a bowl or a pitcher. The sounds filled the otherwise emptiness of the room. And through it all, Buffy remained silent.

Faith looked at her over the small expanse of counter. “Gonna keep up with the resting bitch face, huh? That’s cool. I got enough words for us both.” The faucet suddenly went silent, and Faith returned to the living room, a bowl of water pressed between her palms, a stack of dish towels stuffed under one armpit, a bottle of whiskey under the other. She handed the liquor to Buffy. “Drink. I’m’a go get the first aid kit. Be right back.”

Buffy nodded around a wince as a painful throb shot through her leg. She untwisted the bottle cap, threw back a long swig and closed her eyes as the familiar taste of the burning liquid crept down her throat and into her belly. For a moment, she craved a cigarette and thought about asking Faith for one.

“So way I see it, Buff, you’ve turned the switch.” Faith returned, laid the first aid supplies on the coffee table and kneeled at Buffy’s feet. “There’s no more of that low-down tickle left in you.” Her knees were spread apart and she gyrated her hips suggestively, gesturing to her crotch before she spoke again. “No more fire in your panties. Or behind your eyes for that matter.” She waited a beat for Buffy’s reaction, still didn’t get one. Shrugged, unperturbed, and went back to her work. Faith dipped one of the cloths into the bowl of water, wrung it out and used it to clean the edge of Buffy’s wound.

The blonde hissed when she felt the towel's moist, piping hot fibers rubbing a little too vigorously on the open bite. A third swallow of alcohol helped numb the sensations.

“Ooops, sorry.” Faith blew on Buffy’s knee for a few seconds to cool the burn. She made sure she held the blonde’s eyes before continuing. “Look, Buffy, I know you loved him. Like, really,  _really_  loved him. The kinda love that doesn’t happen to everyone, only happens once in a lifetime -- and in your case? Twice, you lucky bitch.” She chuckled. “I mean, it’s the kind that makes the rest of us total jelly babies.” Faith dipped the bloodied cloth in the bowl of water a few times, the clear liquid turning a deep, Kool-Aid red. “Listen, I don’t wanna get all twelve-steppy or anything, but...’member how we used to talk about slaying makin' ya hungry and horny?”

Buffy nodded her head twice, a small, slow movement, up and down. She left her chin to her chest, lowered her eyes to the side so she looked at the arm of the chair opposite Faith, avoiding her gaze.

The brunette persisted. “Well, I’m not a genius or anything. I’m just an ex-con who didn’t finish high school. Not really with all the book-learnin’ shit or anything. But expecting you to get all hot and bothered...y’know, all horny-like? Obviously, that ain’t gonna happen right now. But...well, B, aren’t ya hungry? Does it make ya feel  _anything_ anymore?”

Neither girl moved for several minutes. When Buffy next looked up at Faith, her eyes were filled with tears, and the tiny shake of her head, that little negatory twist from side-to-side, was nearly imperceptible.

“Babe, maybe it’s time to take a breather. Take a rest. Y’know, refocus.” Faith reached for two more towels and laid them on either side of Buffy’s knee, then grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide off the coffee table. She twisted the cap and said, “Hold still a minute. Might tickle,” and then poured a thin stream of the liquid on Buffy’s knee, waiting as the clear disinfectant bubbled and frothed, cleaning the lesion.

Buffy looked down, her face devoid of emotion.  “Can’t.”

“Whassat? 'M I hurtin' you?”

“Unh-unh. Can’t rest. Can’t think.”

Faith’s shoulders lowered marginally, her body relaxing with sympathy as she closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. When she opened them again, she concentrated on threading a needle, knotted the end. “Can’t or won’t, B?” This time, she didn’t wait for an answer. “So, uh, yeah, this is probably gonna hurt. God, I hate stitches. Okay. You ready?”

Buffy threw back another shot of whiskey, clenched her teeth, gripped the arms of the chair and nodded. With the hand that wasn’t holding the needle, Faith pinched Buffy’s wound closed, holding the skin together as she inserted the sharp point into one side and drew it through.

“You’re gonna have to force yourself t’deal with those hurts, Buff. You remember that time I offed that Finch dude?”

Buffy nodded again, the memories serving as a welcome distraction. The thread cut into the raw bite mark, rubbing in and against the meat of her leg muscle, drawing a bolt of hot fire out the other side.

“You told me that I could shut off all the emotions I wanted, shut down and stop feeling 'em altogether," Faith said. "But eventually, B...you told me that eventually they were gonna find a body and I was gonna haveta face shit. Same goes for you. You can shut ‘em all down, turn ‘em all off. But eventually you're gonna have to face shit. It’s all gonna catch up with you.”

Faith didn’t speak again for a long time, instead concentrated on finishing the sutures, tying them off, and disinfecting the finished job a second time. She sopped up the spilt hydrogen peroxide, applied a thick layer of Neosporin to a gauze pad, blew on Buffy’s gash for a few seconds before placing the pad gently on the wound.

Then Faith just sat there, chewing on her lip. She looked up, caught Buffy’s eye. “He’s gone, B. Spike’s gone.”

Faith’s words hung in the air for a few seconds and then fell, slicing into Buffy like barbs on a wire. As her sister slayer returned to her work, wrapping soft gauze around and around her injured leg, Buffy imagined the barbs wrapping tighter and tighter around her already-broken heart. Digging into the bloody muscle and constricting its flesh so it was all gory and oozing, threatening to burst out of her chest altogether.

The brunette pretended not to notice, instead ensuring the soft cotton was tight enough to secure the medicated pad but loose enough to give Buffy a modicum of range in the joint. She folded the cut end over itself and tucked it into the wrapped layers with her right hand, leaving her left hand to caress Buffy’s calf muscle. The soft touch evoked emotions in the blonde’s chest that she’d forgotten she possessed, and the dam suddenly broke, her eyes overflowing. Buffy began weeping in earnest, silently shaking as the moisture fell like a deluge of torment.

Faith didn’t speak for several minutes, just sat on the floor in front of her closest friend, rubbing her leg and allowing her to grieve. Finally, her soft voice broke the heavy silence. “It’s okay to miss him, B, but he’s gone. He’s not comin’ back.”

“I know.” Buffy whispered. She felt empty, exhausted. “I know, Faith.”

Faith merely nodded and turned to gather up the supplies, crumpling the paper wrappers in the palm of her hand and twisting the caps back onto the hydrogen peroxide bottle and the tube of Neosporin. The three hand towels and the needle went into the bowl of water, a fourth mopped up the remaining spills. She stood, her work done, then turned and caught Buffy’s eye once more. Neither woman moved or looked away for several long seconds.

Faith spoke first. “You’re gonna have to do it on your own, and in your own time, B. But I think you need to start doing it soon. He wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

She gathered everything up, walked into the kitchen and deposited the supplies on the small bit of counter, then walked out the front door without saying another word.

 

###

 

Three days later, Buffy's plane arrived at LAX, taxiing onto the tarmac and up against the gate a full ten minutes ahead of schedule. Buffy called Fred while she sat waiting to disembark -- the friendly, mousy scientist was the only one from the LA group who’d been told about the Slayer’s trip -- and was assured a sign-bearing driver would be waiting by the baggage claim.

She’d packed light, consolidating a few days’ worth of clothes and toiletries between a carry-on and the Coach handbag Mom had bought for her 18th birthday. She took her time getting off the plane, walked through the gate and into the terminal with her eyes averted, counting the individual tiles of carpet in time to the rhythm of her carry-on’s wheels. Buffy barely glanced up as she passed over the threshold of the escalator, raised her pupils just high enough to scan the signs extended in front of a line of drivers standing near the U-shaped baggage belt. Nearly all of them were attired in dark sunglasses and the black and white suited uniform of a professional chauffeur.

All of them, that is, but the redhead holding the sign reading  _B. SUMMERS_.

And there stood Willow, chewing nervously on her lip with eyes big as plates. She didn’t shout with glee, didn’t rush forward, didn’t swing her arms open and converge on her best friend like a pig to its trough. She simply stood there, the half of her mouth not between her teeth upturned in her quiet Willow smile. Making Buffy feel as if she was 15 years old again.

As far as kindred spirits go, Buffy's was instantly aware it had found home the moment her heart reached out to her bosom friend. Their eyes met and Willow smiled with more surety. Buffy's heart leapt at the familiar sparkle only moments before her body collapsed and she burst into tears.


	4. Chapter Four: Proceeding From the Heat-Oppressed Brain

**Chapter Four: Proceeding from the Heat-Oppressed Brain**

 

The children's roadside shouting roused the entire community, and the common area filled faster than an open bar at a Harris wedding. Straw huts emptied like clown cars, with waves of tribespeople laughing and shouting eagerly at one another, their hand gestures wildly animated, speaking the same jilted dialect Xander’s car mates had used.

From the backseat of the Jeep, he watched the crowd part. Bodies of every size were wrapped in vibrantly patterned fabrics and faded tank tops, soccer shorts and the kinds of cotton, button-up shirts his grandfather wore in 1982. Small children milled about in underwear and little else while older kids supervised, their chests emblazoned with Tommy Hilfiger logos, Spongebob and Mickey Mouse. It was a veritable sea of rich chocolate skin, bold geometric patterns, western pop culture and faded thrift store cast-offs.

As the vehicle drew to a stop, an elderly man emerged from the center-most hut, smiling as he squinted against the setting sun. The sleeves of his old Ramones t-shirt were cut off at the shoulder, exposing short, sinewy arms, and the strings of his denim cutoffs dangled awkwardly above knobby knees. He held in his left hand a long, wooden staff wrapped with feathers and beads, its tip extending a good two feet over his round, bald head. The man looked to be about 70, stood all of five feet tall and might’ve weighed a buck five at most...and one glance at him had Xander utterly transfixed.

The experience was uncannily familiar. After a near-decade at Buffy’s side, he’d become accustomed to big-time presence wrapped up in little people packages.

Fenyang led Xander through the throngs of excited people, a tremor of power shimmering almost visibly in the air. The driver greeted the holy man with the familiarity of a close friend, clapping him on the back of the neck and drawing him into an embrace, before he withdrew and turned a smiling face to Xander.

"This is our shaman, my American friend," came his accented introduction. "He is man of peace. A man of knowledge that will lead you to truth."

"Um....thanks," Xander replied simply. He extended his hand, immediately questioned the gesture. Would the elder tribesman know the custom and reach out to join the handshake? Was it more appropriate to kiss his hand? Bow at his feet? Break into the tribal dance sequence from  _Coming to America?_

"Welcome, wanderer. Welcome." The warmth of a bony hand and the shaman's rich baritone broke through Xander's thoughts. After weeks of heavy accents and often very broken English, it was somewhat jarring to hear the shaman’s tongue form the hard  _R_  of a perfect American-English pronunciation. "Come, please, come in and sit with me. I’ve been expecting you, Alexander Harris." He stood as high as Xander’s chest, his mouth stretched in a wide smile --  _Hot damn, if this guy didn’t look like a little African Yoda_ , Xander thought -- and held the door open to his guest. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come in, come in,” said the older man. “Lay your belongings there, boy, don’t dally. You’ll let the cold air out."

Xander hurried to discard the few bags he carried and settled himself near the stone fireplace on a cushion patterned in deep reds and bright oranges. The rug under his feet was soft and padded, the fire was warm, comfortably so, and the air inside the hut was pleasantly cool.

Now that he thought about it, it was much cooler than he would’ve expected, actually...given the heat of the sun outside and the blaze of the hearth within.  _You’ll let the cold out? What the-? Hmmm, magical AC. Nifty._

"Bet it'd cost a fortune to cool your little hideaway here the regular way. You know, what with it being so far outside of the city and all." Xander blurted out, then immediately switched gears. "So, um, exactly how does this work?"

"I’m guessing we’re no longer discussing my hut’s air conditioning?”

“No,” Xander chuckled. “How does...well, for one, how's it possible that I've travelled thousands of miles to the middle of Nowheresville, where I've found a mystical shaman the age of my Aunt Esther Mae, who has not only been expecting my arrival, but who lives in a magically air conditioned straw hut and who talks better English than me?"

" _Speaks_  better English than  _I_ ," the old man retorted, a merry twinkle lighting his eyes as he rolled them in mock disgust. The gesture was so Giles-like it hurt Xander’s chest.

"That, too."

Deceptively frail-looking shoulders shrugged. "Eh, mere parlor tricks, all of them. A twist on the elements to release the heat back outside. As for the language, you hear me in the tongue you know, even though the one I use is the same as the people outside.” The old man’s soft smile turned somber as his body drooped. He seemed to consider the weight of his next words very carefully. “I suppose I've had time to prepare the spell. Like I said, I’ve waited for you, Alexander-”

“Xander,” the younger said automatically, then peered up apologetically once he realized he’d interrupted.

“Xander, then,” the shaman smiled, nodded. “I’ve waited and watched as you traveled many miles with a broken heart, seeking the aid of a demon. I know of your fight with the First Evil. Watched when you lost your love in a battle for the world.” The old man fell silent for another moment, his head cocked, contemplating. “I also know you wish it was you."

Xander's one eye went wide, but he didn’t speak.

“My intention is not to frighten you, Xander, nor is it to make your already heavy burden even heavier. I regret now that I’ve done both,” the old man murmured sincerely. “I only wish to convince you of my sincerity, to show you that you can trust me to guide you in what’s to come.”

“What do you mean, what’s to come?” It was too much for Xander to process, too fast. “I came here looking for directions to my next stop.”

“You’ve already made it to your destination, son.” The old man’s eyes locked with Xander’s. “The world is in danger and you are its only hope.”

###

Buffy’s sudden collapse had elicited a group of concerned people, and it took Willow several minutes to wave them away. An airline employee helped her pull the blonde up from the floor and over to a nearby bench. From there, and after much back rubbing and whispered assurances, she encouraged the Slayer to the elevators and out to the car.

Willow started the ignition but didn’t put the vehicle into reverse, instead just sat there, quietly staring at her fisted hands on the steering wheel as her best friend wept beside her. When she finally spoke, the redhead’s voice was hoarse, raw with emotion.

"Some nights, I thought I'd die. I  _wanted_  to." Willow reached across, drew Buffy’s hand into hers. Lifted it, pressed a small kiss and then her cheek into the blonde’s slender palm. "Not having her there...not having Tara there?” Willow lowered Buffy’s hand, rolling her eyes in an attempt to staunch the oncoming tears. “It was like the half of me that made sense just...disappeared."

For several minutes, each woman was lost in a maze of memories, thinking of loved ones taken far too soon. Finally, Willow rubbed her eyes and gathered her wits, put the car in reverse and exited the parking garage.

"So,” she sighed a few minutes later. “You wanna go back to dubbya-and-aitch or did you have something else in mind?" Buffy’s sobs had abated to sniffles, and Willow handed her friend a tissue from a box in the backseat.

"A world of no to Wolfram and Hart," replied Buffy breathily, mopping her eyes and nose with the balled up Kleenex. "God, Will, Wolfram and Hart? I mean, what is he thinking? Spike once told me that...." She broke off, his name popping out unexpectedly, a sharp reminder of her ever-agonized heart. "No...no, Willow. I don’t want to go to Wolfram and Hart.”

Since no other suggestions were offered and they weren’t in a hurry to get anywhere, Willow stayed on I-5 and pulled into the slow lane, bypassing the exit for Angel’s office as the vehicle headed north.

Finally, after several silent minutes, Buffy spoke again. “Have you been back to see what’s left of Sunnydale yet?"

###

Xander stared at the old shaman, mouth agape, eye wide. The apocalypse loomed and he was the only hope. Which only meant one thing.

The world, as Giles had so frequently and succinctly put it, was  _fucking doomed_.

After all, world endage and the name "Alexander Harris" went together like...like drywall and a busted pipe. Like olives and peanut butter. Howard Stern and Mother Angelica. Totally unmixy. Other people did the thinking and the leading and the championing. He was better suited as the backing muscle. I mean, c'mon. Did the holy dude really just say he, Xander Harris, was responsible for saving the world? Surely not.

“Let’s review, if we could,” Xander said, holding out his hand so he could count each statement on his fingers. “So we’ve covered your impeccable mastery of the English language. You've explained the hocus pocus behind your hut's upgraded cooling system. You say you watched the fall of Sunnydale, and that you know about Anya and the First, and I guess I can write that off on the magicks as well.” Xander figured it wouldn’t have been hard for the a practitioner to tap into the wiccan network and get the gist of the Sunnydale story.

When he continued, his voice was panicked. “But me being the chosen one? Yeah, well, that’s  _so_  not my role. I mean...while I’d love to play Luke to your Yoda and be all one with the Force, well...wrong guy, you’ve got.” Xander had played backup in more crazy, fucked-up situations than he wanted to count, but he’d never played in the quarterback position. He preferred to be an offensive lineman. Possibly kicker. Wasn’t at all averse to swinging pom-poms from the sidelines.

“ _Fear is the path to the Dark Side,_  Xander.  _Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering._ ”

“Okay, but me saving the world? That’s bigger than I can do on my own.”

“ _Size matters not...look at me. Judge me by size, do you?_ ”

Xander grinned, and when he spoke again, his voice was filled with admiration. “Yoda fan, are ya?”

“Wise man, is he,” the shaman replied cheekily, nodding his head stiffly to the side like the Grand Jedi Master himself. “But he’s right. Your fear and anger  _will_  turn to hate. Then, before you can blink,” he snapped his thumb and forefinger, “all that hatred will turn to evil, and you and the rest of the world will go dark.”

Xander waved his hands, palm out, in front of his chest in denial. “Hold up. The whole black veins and dark, googly eye thing? Wasn’t my gig. Like I said, wrong guy. Wrong gender, in fact, since that one was a red-headed wiccan with an eye for the ladies.” He pointed to his own chest. “This guy? No super power has he.”

“No, boy.  _You_  hold up, because it's you who misunderstands. I’m not saying that your fear and anger will turn to hatred and evil because  _you_ choose to make it so. What I’m telling you is that the choice will not be yours. And it will happen even so.”

When Xander moved to interrupt again, the shaman held up a hand to quiet him.

“Please, let me explain. We have enough time for a story. Tea?” The old man offered, then rose and made his way to the fire, where he stooped to ladle a few spoonfuls into a mug from a kettle suspended over the flames. At Xander’s nod, he repeated the motions over a second cup, then handed it to Xander. He settled himself before the fire and sipped from his mug before he continued speaking.

“Many, many years ago...many more than you could count in your head, there was a land called Nizami that was... _is_  the most magnificent, the most magical in all of the history of the world. Every corner of it teemed with colorful life, with people and animals and trees and flowers of every type known to man and more. The king and the queen of Nizami -- King Alisher and Queen Navoi -- were fair rulers and powerful sorcerers. The people thrived under their rule.”

The shaman went quiet and looked over as Xander sipped his own tea. The drink was hot, though not enough to burn his tongue, and it tasted of an earthier blend than Giles typically drank. There were hints of Persian or Indian spices, like nutmeg and cinnamon and something equally pleasant, and the tea was sweetened to perfection.

The old man smiled, pleased, then turned to face the fire again. “Twin baby girls, delicate and perfect, were born to the king and queen. The firstborn had the fairest of skin, hair the color of the sun and eyes blue like the sky. The second baby was just as beautiful, but in reverse, with olive skin, charcoal eyes and hair dark as night.

“As the two infants grew, it became clear that they were as different in temperament as they were in complexion. Where the fair child was obedient, her darker sister was headstrong. The first was demure and polite, the other passionate and outgoing. It was also evident that the girls had inherited their parents’ powers of sorcery.” The shaman chuckled, a sound that seemed to echo from deep within his chest. “As toddlers, a bad dream set every dog to barking within a three mile radius. The smallest of dinnertime temper tantrums caused minor flooding. They really kept their mom and dad hopping.”

The old man swirled his tea for a moment. “The fair twin’s powers were born of the stars and the skies, from the same source as their mother’s ethereal, fairy-like magicks. She could read minds and foretell the future, held the essence of the heavens' light and peace behind her eyes. This daughter could breed positivity in even the darkest of sorrows. She lit up a room with sheer happiness the moment she walked in.

“The younger, darker-skinned twin’s magicks were more like their father’s, derived from the earth and based on the elements. Her powers were more of the conjuring sort, which meant she could manipulate water and fire, air and ice. A change in her moods affected the weather and propagated feelings of passion, aggression and daring, and other emotions borne of a darker nature. She could push a tidal wave of anxiety and disquiet over a crowd with a single breath.

“Individually, their powers were diametrically opposed, strong. And in terms of the younger twin, very, very dangerous. Together, though, there was a balance, as one set of powers played the yin to the other’s yang. Together, they also grew exponentially stronger, surpassing any power ever known to man, god or beast.

“The twins loved one another profoundly, even in the face of their extreme differences. The older of the two was shy and preferred home, where she stayed close to her mother, growing in charm, chastity and refinement. The younger twin, while also breathtakingly beautiful, was the exact opposite in nature. She had such zeal for life and was known to sneak out of the castle to raise hell all over town, with the son of the king’s healer.”

Another deep-chested chuckle from the shaman drew a wide grin over Xander’s face. The old man’s expression was fondly wistful, as if he knew the sisters of whom he spoke, was remembering them, even though they’d lived hundreds -- if not thousands -- of years before. Xander felt like a little boy, criss-cross-applesauced during Story Time at the library.

“The younger twin and the healer’s son...their joined magicks were but a fraction of the what the two twins shared together, but it, too, was a force to be reckoned with. And the pranks they pulled!” Dramatically, the shaman slapped his hand over his heart and rolled his eyes. “If one of the local farmers was rumored to have swindled a worker, they’d conjure his livestock behind another man’s fence. A shop owner with overpriced wares might wake to find his cart sorcelled to the lake across town.” He shook his head with a smirk. “They once grew a tree with a trunk the size of a Buick mere inches from a school bully’s front door. Their capers weren’t at all malicious, but people never knew what to expect next.

“Over the years, the two fell deeply in love. And while the king had been complacent about the pranks and mischief they’d pulled as kids, he had big plans for his two daughters as adults and absolutely forbid an illicit love affair. The dark twin and her father fought for several weeks, as she begged, cajoled and debated to no avail. When she continued sneaking out and refused to give in, the king conjured a spell to prevent her from ever leaving the castle again. The healer and his son, he banished to the outskirts of town, where he provided them with a home, a bountiful garden, and a comfortable life.

“Faced with the possibilities of a loveless existence, the dark twin let loose the control over her powers. Sadness and anger spread across the land, and for no reason at all, wives began turning on husbands, children on parents. Rivers and lakes dried up overnight, crops wilted and livestock dropped, dead, to the ground. The fair twin sister begged her sibling to stop, beseeched her to join their magicks and help cleanse the land once again. But her words fell on deaf ears, and the dark twin fell deeper and deeper into the blackness of vengeance as she continued to wreak havoc with her anger from the confines of the castle.

“After weeks of drought and famine, and in the hopes of forcing her hand, the king finally threatened to kill the healer’s son if his daughter failed to get her magicks under control. This had the opposite effect and only served to anger her even more, and the outrage caused an earthquake that swallowed nearly a third of the town’s population. The king had no choice but to follow through with his threat. As her lover was put to a gruesome death in the town square, the dark twin watched helplessly from the tower of the castle, unable to leave the boundaries of her father's hex.

“But in the instant the healer’s son’s last breath left his body, the castle’s tower exploded and the dark twin’s charged body rose from its wreckage. Her magicks, backed by all of her vengeance, easily broke the king’s magical barriers. With a sweep of her arm, molten lava erupted from the earth, covering the land and killing everything and everyone in its wake. She placed a petrification spell over her father, forcing him to watch, frozen, as the destructive forces flattened the terrain and turned the center of his kingdom to ash.

“He was no match for her sorcery, couldn’t move to save his life or the life of his subjects. All he could do was stand there as the world around him burned. Then, as the king’s feet melted into that river of molten rock, he was finally able to break far enough into her spell to heave his a powerful curse in her direction. He sunk lower and lower into the lava, and with his last breath, he damned her to an incorporeal eternity in the bowels of every wasteland, feeding from the isolation and the destruction and the anguish, never again touching another human being. He perished with her laughter in his ears...and then, the kingdom of Nizami was no more.”

“Wow,” said Xander breathily. “I…wow.”

“Mm-hmm,” the old man agreed. “The royal family was never heard from again, though there are accounts throughout history, and in more than one dimension, in which the dark twin has been seen in the aftermath of a war or a natural disaster. She wanders, consuming the leftover torment and suffering, as she purifies and cleanses the auras. Then she disappears until the next tragedy. For eons, it’s been like this.”

The holy man fell silent, his shoulders drawn and his eyes averted to the ground near the fire. Xander wondered if that was the end of the story. It didn’t make sense. Where did he come in?

Then, as if he’d voiced the question aloud, the shaman looked up. “I know my story has been long, but I promise, your place in it draws near. A century ago, a prophecy was discovered, foretelling of the Hellmouth’s fall, of the return of... _love over tragedy_  in the wasted Land of the Sun.”

“And lemme guess,” said Xander cynically. “That translation was wrong.”

“Of course it was,” the shaman agreed. “While it is, indeed, about the fall of the Hellmouth, the phrase ‘the return of love over tragedy’ is an error. The correct translation is ‘the return of lovers tragic.’ In other words, the return of the dark twin and the healer’s son, the tragic lovers.

“And in the wasted Land of the Sun,” murmured Xander, rubbing his face. “Otherwise known as the wasteland of Sunnydale.”

“Correct. And there’s more.”

“Naturally.”

“The prophecy goes on to say that the return will be fueled by the anguish of a champion, and that it will initiate the Great Purge.”

“The Great Purge, That sounds fun.”

The old man nodded. “A reader familiar with the story of Nizami may first identify this ‘Great Purge’ as the king’s curse. The dark twin’s wandering of the wasteland, feeding on, or  _purging of_ , its desolation. This is incorrect. The purge it’s truly speaking of is one with far, far greater range.” The shaman paused for effect. “This Great Purge will affect not only Sunnydale, but the whole world over. It is the purge of the world into darkness as the tragic lovers take their place at its helm.”

“And bon voyage life as we know it.”

The holy man nodded. “Bon voyage, indeed. And that’s where you come in, Xander.”

“How so?”

Instead of answering the question directly, the shaman asked, “you have a cell phone, right?”

“Sure,” replied the confused brunette.

“Not too keen on listening to your voicemails, though, are you now?”

Xander blushed, confused.

The shaman smirked. “Just as I thought. Well, the answer to your question begins with a message you’ve only just received. Why don’t you give your inbox a listen while I clean up these cups. Shouldn’t take you but a couple minutes to find the one I’m talking about. You’ll know it when you hear it.”

“Uh, yeah, but we’ve got a problem, my enlightened friend,” said Xander. “Phone’s dead. Been that way for a few hundred miles.”

“Much to learn, you still have,” came the reply as the holy man walked across the hut and unloaded the dishes into the belly of a wash basin. “Why don’t you check your phone again?”

And sure enough, his flip phone offered a full charge and an unexpectedly clear signal as he dialed his voicemail inbox. Xander skipped the first dozen or so messages, since they’d been recorded during the first month of his journey, and stopped scanning when the recited timestamp of one of the messages revealed a date that was only days before.

He smiled when the sound of Willow’s voice filled his ear, and listened as the redhead rambled through some  _not-you-not-me-but-trouble-that-is-Buffy_  nonsense. It didn’t seem immediately pertinent, so he skipped to the next message. He’d listen to that first one again later when he had more time to make sense of her incoherent babbling.

Wow, he hadn’t realized how much he  _missed_ her incoherent babbling.

Ten seconds into the only remaining message -- also from Willow, recorded less than an hour ago -- and his heart dropped to the floor.

“Hey, Xan, it’s Will.” Her voice was backed by the steady drone of a vehicle moving at high speeds. She'd called while she was driving. “Guess you’re still not answering. So listen, I’m in LA. Buffy’s here, too. Well, I guess it's not really LA anymore. We’re on our way to Sunnydale and we were thinking about you, so-”

_Wait a minute. On their way to Sunnydale?_

Xander flipped his phone shut and sat staring at the fire, two and two slowly adding up to four in his pounding head.

The return of the lovers tragic and the Great Purge, both fueled by the anguish of the champion in the wastelands of Sunnydale.

Sunnydale, where Willow and Buffy, both champions of the anguished sort, were now headed.

This was  _so_  not of the good.

Xander jerked upright and faced the old man. In a voice that was a little too loud but not nearly panicked enough, he asked, “Okay, Mr. Guide-Me-Through-What-Comes-Next. I’m with you. Let’s get to the guidin’.”  

###

In the Sunnydale breeze, the succulent scent of despair hung low, thick like dark chocolate syrup and twice as rich. It was laced with sadness and loss, anger and heartache, bits of terror and loneliness peeking through here and there. All of these beautiful flavors and nuances, mixed up in a big vat like twelve bean soup and left to simmer on the back burner of southern California.

Its perfume whet Layla’s appetite and made her belly rumble.

Outside the 10 mile radius of a crater that once was an active mouth of Hell, a good many homes and businesses remained. There wasn’t much to look at but puke-colored, peeled-paint siding and overgrown yards, looted store fronts, car-shaped skeletons and dangling street lights. She supposed the buildings were at least inhabitable, if not overly creature comfortable. And anyways, they were likely the reason Sunnydale’s poorest and most destitute -- the ones with nowhere else to go -- had survived this long.

Ice ages, sea levels rising, climate change, the extinction of an uncountable number of animals and plant life...these humans survived  _everything_. Layla had to respect, if not be overly annoyed by, their tenacity.

“Are you deaf?” A sudden, deep-throated snarl spewed from a dimly lit porch up ahead. "I said out! Out, y’ old bat! Ain’t puttin’ up with this shit no more."

The shout carried on a gust of wind, and from thirty feet away, Layla could taste the contempt in the man’s breath. She didn’t move, just watched as the silhouette of a tiny old woman came rushing out of the abandoned home, a thin sack of bones hobbling on weak legs, hunched over a crooked cane. The screen door slammed behind her, leaving the old woman alone, moonlight casting its glow where she stood on the otherwise darkened sidewalk.

Marking her as easy prey.

The elderly woman flinched when she noticed Layla slinking out of the shadows. Pale knuckles went even whiter around the handle of her cane and her body stiffened. The instant their eyes met, she relaxed, and the old woman just stood there, gazing steadily at Layla, a look of rapture on her withered, wrinkled face. For several seconds, the only visible movement was the slow widening of her tired, aged eyes. Then the old woman’s frail body began to shrink inward, the meat and bones under paper-thin skin dissolving unnaturally fast...like one of those time lapse videos where maggots devoured the head of a dead fox.

In no time at all, the old crone was nothing but fossilized dust, and Layla was on the prowl for the next helping before the last particle hit the ground. She had to prepare. She'd wandered alone for an eternity, through a million million generations, more despondent and anguished than the desolation upon which she fed. The prophecy had been a light at the end of an infinitely long and dark tunnel, and now, a century later, she’d finally found the prophesied wasteland.

It wouldn’t be long. Her beloved Majnun would return soon, and they would make this world theirs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The first Yoda quote -- “Fear is the path to the Dark Side. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.” -- is from Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace.  
> 2\. The second Yoda quote -- “Size matters not...look at me. Judge me by size, do you?” -- is from Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back.  
> 3\. The third Yoda quote -- “Much to learn, you still have.” -- is from Star Wars Episode III: Attack of the Clones.  
> 4\. I hope I haven’t offended anyone who’s familiar with the story of Layla and Majnun. I’m taking a lot of liberties with the back story here. “Layla and Majnun” is a sort of Persian version (hey, that rhymes) of Romeo and Juliet. Check Wikipedia for an overview. Some iterations of their story give them magical powers, so I borrowed that idea and took it totally AU, squishing and molding their tragedy so it fit into my own needs.   
> 5\. The twin sister element is borrowed, not from “Layla and Majnun,” but from the story of the Hindu goddess sisters, Lakshmi and Alakshmi. Lakshmi’s the good one, a source of all things beautiful and wealthy and wonderful. I was intrigued by the story of her opposite, the bad sister, Alakshmi, who could walk into a home and immediately breed discontent among its inhabitants.  
> 6\. One last attribution. The name “Nizami,” as well as the names of both monarchs -- King “Alisher” and Queen “Navoi” -- are all poets who have recaptured the tragic story of Layla and Majnun into works of their own. I suck at making up my own names and really liked the way these ones sounded, so I stole ‘em.


	5. Chapter Five: A Dagger of the Mind, A False Creation

There are certain questions that, when asked, always glean the same, predictable results. Ask a teacher how to spell a word, for example, and you can bet the farm that you’ll get told to  _go look it up_. Inquire about a woman’s due date before you’ve ascertained the sex of the baby, her birthing plan and the list of possible baby names, and you can be sure she’s not pregnant. Suggest that a houseful of slayers “look before they sit” instead of simply agreeing to put the seat down, and you’re guaranteed a gaggle of irritated females. And a black eye.

That last one, incidentally, also applies when suggesting they enter MMA championships, participate in Jello wrestling competitions or launch the SexySlayerShack.com website...even if one can argue that there’s  _oodles_  of money to be made in all three instances.

As of this afternoon, Xander officially had another predictable question-and-answer to add to the growing list: When you ask a shaman to play tour guide through whatever’s to come, you’re gonna end up on a vision quest.

The old man had no sooner nodded his agreement to the request than was rifling through a leather pouch over the fireplace and inviting Xander to join him again in front of the flames. On the rug between them, the shaman set a drum, a book of matches, and a small pipe, into the bowl of which he deposited a bit of something green he’d pinched from the leather pouch.

Now, as far as Xander could remember, Buffy’s jaunt into VQ Central -- that’s  _Vision Quest Central_  for the uninitiated -- had involved the Hokey Pokey, a gourd, a constitutional with a mountain lion, and a few quick Z’s before the good stuff really got underway. As it turns out, you don’t need to shake a pumpkin or take a nap or dance the Watusi to get there. A little ganja will set a merry astral body on its way just as easily.

“Ah, good ol’  _cannabis sativas,_ ” Xander said appreciatively after smelling the substance in the bowl of the pipe. “Certainly an interesting addition to any fantastic voyage. And while I’m rarely one to deny some friendly doobage...well, I still need to call Willow and...uh, aren’t we under a bit of a time crunch?”

“Don’t take me for a fool, boy, I know there’s no time to waste,” was the old man’s response. “And put your phone away. It’s dead and there’s no time to call the witch anyways.”

Xander looked down at the phone still in his hands, a glance at the screen and a press on the power button confirming that the battery had, indeed, depleted once again. He slipped the device into his pocket.

The shaman held out his hand, palm down over the filled pipe, closed his eyes and began chanting.

_Dairandaidrandidai_ __  
_Hasto cielo mantchini_    
_Chinchi chinchi medicoy_  
_Dairandaidrandidai_

Then he opened his eyes again, picked up the pipe and offered it to Xander, who took it without a word. A few seconds were spent examining the smoking instrument -- carved in the shape of a wolf, the ivory bowl tapered into a mahogany wood stem, all of it polished to a high gleam -- then he drew the mouthpiece to his lips, lit the mound of herb and inhaled. His first pull left him hacking up a lung, but Xander’s second didn’t scream  _newbie stoner_  nearly as much.

When he lowered the piece to his lap, the old man reached for it, a mouthful of cloudy smoke pouring out from between his wrinkled lips a few seconds later. Several minutes were spent thusly, passing the pipe back and forth, lighting and inhaling and blowing out pumes of fragrant smoke, and by the time the bowl was spent, the inside of the straw hut was filled with thick, white clouds.

“I will now play the drum and chant, Xander. You just sit back and let the sounds draw you into a trance.” The holy man’s voice was low and even and soothing. Hypnotic.

Xander lay back with his eyes closed, beginning to feel as if his head was floating from his shoulders. A vibration hummed through his body, raising the hairs on his arms and legs, and Xander's ears were suddenly filled with a steady  _waa-waa-waa_  sound, like the teacher from Charlie Brown. And instead of the expected cotton mouth, a sweet, cherry flavor flooded his tongue and coated his teeth. This was unlike any high he'd ever felt.

“Relax into the chant, Xander,” he heard the shaman intone the reminder from a distance. “Do not be afraid to let go. I promise, you will find me on the other side.”

The chanting began again.

_Dairandaidrandidai_ __  
_Hasto cielo mantchini_  
_Chinchi chinchi medicoy_  
_Dairandaidrandidai_

This time, though, the shaman's words were accompanied by the regular pounding of a drum, its deep, resonant sound reverberating in Xander’s chest like a second heartbeat. He relaxed even further against the cushions, allowing his arms and legs to go boneless and his breathing to slow, deepen. He was completely still, save for a few twitches of his jaw and the tiny flutter of an eyelid, when all of a sudden, his body jerked with that falling, top-of-the-roller-coaster feeling you get just before falling asleep. For a second or two afterwards, his forehead went on a drunken forward spiral. Then he simply just...drifted.

###

Buffy had forgotten how much she missed Willow. Though they’d managed to keep a fairly steady stream of biweekly phone calls running between Cleveland and Brazil, there was nothing like being able to reach out and touch her for real. To hear that low, off-key hum that always started when the radio played Alanis Morisette or the Cranberries or Sarah McLachlan. To sit by her side and smell her shampoo and the notes of that familiar perfume, in all of its lavender and plumeria and figgy sweetness. To simply bask in the aura that was just so  _Willow_.

“I miss you, Will,” the blonde said quietly, though she didn’t look up to meet her best friend’s eyes. “I’m a little lost.” She let out a breathy snicker as she glanced up and out the side window. “Who am I trying to fool? I’m  _a lot_  lost. Just in case you couldn’t tell by my sterling display of total spaz.”

“Aw, c’mon. I think you’re allowed to go a little wiggy every now and then, Buffy,” Willow replied. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’ve had a hard year.”

This time Willow could hear the cynicism in Buffy’s chuckle. “I’ve had a hard  _decade_ , Will.”

“You know, anytime I start to think that way, I try to remind myself that there was a lot of good in it, too. Lots of stuff that was smiley and happy and-and big-laugh-making...” said the redhead, though she nodded in agreement nonetheless. “I also know it’s a slippery slope into the apocalyptically evil vengeance, Buffy. I know that it feels like the universe is out to get you, even though you can’t figure out what the hell you did to deserve it.” She drove for a mile or two before speaking again. “It helps to talk about it, if you want.”

Buffy leaned her forehead against the window, welcoming the warmth of the late August sunshine filtering through the plate glass, deciding she didn’t really miss seasons at all. “I understand why you did it,” she finally murmured.

“Did what?”

“Warren.”

“Oh, goddess, that’s not exactly one of my finer memories, Buffy. In fact, I’d even agree to a go with that flashy-memory-messer-upper thing from Men in Black. You know the one, right? With the sunglasses and the whole  _I make this look good_?” Willow scrunched her face into a sultry expression and threw her voice a decibel lower in imitation of Will Smith.

Buffy gave a weak smile. “Yeah, but that’s not what I meant. I mean that I can see why you did it.” Buffy finally looked her friend. “I didn’t understand it then. Maybe I didn’t want to. But I get it now.”

Though Willow didn’t speak, her body relaxed visibly as she stared out at the stretch of highway in front of her, as if it was a comfort to be understood after all of this time.

“And Will, even knowing how you feel about what you did...I think that if I had someone to blame, you know, something to actually go after? I’d do it, too. I would. Because it would-”

Willow interrupted her, “It would help you forget how bad it hurts. I know. Trust me. I know. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t work like that at all. The people you hurt, Buffy, you feel them deep down inside you. You always have. I do, too. It’s never as simple as 'venge and forget.' We’re just not wired that way.”

“I don’t know, Will. That might’ve been true once, but I just don’t know if it is any more.” She drew her knees far enough apart to get a peek at the bite wound, no longer gaping as it had been when Faith first found her, but soft and pink, nearly healed. A scarred reminder of how far she was from okay. “I think my wiring’s all jumbled up. All I do, all the time, is think about how hard it is to just keeping going without him. All the things I could’ve done differently. The times I could’ve said something or done something to let him in,” she whispered. “Then, when I finally did, it was too late.”

“Buffy, how many times were you at each other’s throats? You've got to remember everything that came before, and the reasons it took you so long to let him in.” Willow reminded her.

“And how many more times after that did he try to show me how he felt? Say what you want, Will. I was a total shit to him. And then he died for me...for everyone,” she corrected. “Now, all that’s left of him is back there in that crater.”

“I know,” Willow whispered. “Don’t forget I had to leave Tara behind, too.” The redhead sniffled and wiped her eye, the memory of running her finger over the letters on Tara’s gravestone fresh in her mind. “You’re right, Buffy. She’d gone. He’s gone. But we can’t let their sacrifice go to waste. There’s a reason we both ended up right here, right now.” Well, that and a little Cleveland-bound astral projection, but Willow wasn’t one to kiss and tell. “Let’s make it count. We’ll go home, say our goodbyes, and then get back to the fighting evil and helping people, ‘kay?”

"'Kay."

Willow reached across and lay her hand, palm up, on Buffy’s knee, and smiled when the blonde laced her own fingers through, in true  _Thelma and Louise_  fashion. They drove like that for a long time, sharing the hurt, and didn’t let go until they came to the sign declaring  _Welcome to Sunnydale!_

Willow slowed the car to a stop and was the first to speak. “Home sweet home. Ready?” At Buffy’s tiny nod, she said, “here goes nothing.”

Then, as if on cue, both women simultaneously took and held a deep breath as the vehicle crossed the city border. It took little more than a few blocks before the first evidence of the Hellmouth’s fall became clear, and only two beyond that before Willow could drive no further. She pulled the car over, parking it at an angle in the middle of a street next to a leather barcalounger that lay tilted like a drunken hobo against a felled tree. She could see the edge of the crater down the street, and around it, the demolished city. What little of it that was left above ground was completely looted, in utter disrepair. For a lifelong Sunnydale resident, it was absolutely heartbreaking.

On the passenger side, Buffy exited the car and stepped out carefully into the debris littering the street. The sound of her door slamming shut carried down the empty street, then echoed when Willow did the same from the driver’s side. The air was thick, as if she was breathing through heavy steam, and it slithere into her nostrils and down into her lungs as she stood there surveying the damage.

A street sign lay at her feet, its two metal plates hanging haphazardly from the end of the silver pole, dented green rectangles marked in white capital letters: ORVILLE RD and SUNSET RDG. They’d pulled over near the far edge of town, and the university loomed less than a block over. When Buffy turned in its direction, she could see through the damaged rooftops and razed trees, noting that while the campus still stood, a few buildings and the water tower were cracked and crumbling. The land had shifted more than enough to make the structures unsafe.

She breathed the thick air even deeper as she rounded her glance back to the other end of the street. All this loss, all this devastation. The whole of Sunnydale had suffered tremendously. They’d lost everything.

And none of them more than her.

Buffy’s chest tightened in intense anger as she mentally ticked off her list of personal sacrifices.  _Spike. Mom. The house on Revello Drive. Tara. Anya. All of her photos, her yearbooks, the cards she saved from birthdays and holidays. Mister Gordo. The skull ring she’d never returned after her engagement to Spike._  She had contributed all of these memories, her heart and soul to the greater good, and what did she have to show for it?  _Not a fucking thing._ And she’d done it all for a bunch of ignorant, thankless sons of bitches. The realization made her seethe.

Willow’s thoughts were filled with similar turmoil as images of Tara whirled around and around in her head. All the times they shared coffee at the Espresso Bean. The walks they’d taken through the park near campus. Star gazing from the rooftop of their dormitory building. Playing house like a real, married couple from the master bedroom on Revello Drive. All of these memories, her whole heart and her soul, she’d contributed to the greater good, and she had zilch to show for it. And when she really thought about it, she realized that she’d done it all for one reason...and one reason only.

Willow finally turned her gaze to Buffy, her pupils pure black and her body tense with angry power. She raised a hand, held it up with her palm facing the Slayer, fingers spread, making ready to throw a spell. “This is all because of you, you know,” the witch seethed between clenched teeth. “This is all your fault. Because you came here.”

“Think so, do you?” came the blonde’s reply in the moment before she vaulted over the hood of the car in counterattack. "Wanna say that again to my face?"

“Not a problem. This. Is. Your. Fault.” Each of Willow’s words was emphasized with the flare of her fingers, as four powerful bursts of magick drove Buffy back over the hood of the car and onto the asphalt behind. Each thrust zapped the Slayer with enough of a jolt to knock over a full-grown man, and left the blonde struggling to stand against the live charges vacillating through her body.

Then Willow moved a little too close, her lack of fighting savvy working in Buffy’s favor. The blonde kicked out and tripped the witch, knocking her to the ground before she was able to let loose another shocking pulse. Buffy jumped to her feet and towered over her friend-turned-opponent, seething, “What the hell did I do to  _you_ , witch bitch?”

Willow made to defend herself with another spell, so Buffy kicked her roughly in her side, sending the redhead into spasms of pain. “Oh, sure, of course Willow’s back on the magicks yet again. Just like always. Junkie Willow,” she kicked Willow in the side, slightly lower than before. “Selfish Willow,” one more kick to the kidney. “Come to magick me back again from a perfectly respectable afterlife?”

The redhead suddenly recoiled, the movement deliberate rather than self-protective. From this position, she was better able to visualize her magickal center, where she could draw all of her emotions and vengeance and anger and hatred into a big, burning ball of power. She suddenly sprung her body outward, throwing a hand in Buffy’s direction as she shouted, “ _Irretite!_ ”

Two roots suddenly broke through the asphalt at Buffy’s feet and started winding themselves around her ankles. A branch from a nearby tree grew and bound her hands as well.

Willow laughed with evil mirth. “You like that? Used that one on Warren, too. Seems fitting, doesn’t it? ‘Member what I said before, Buffy? I think it’s time for you to have every square inch of your ass kicked.”

Buffy pulled hard with her right leg and arm, then again with the left, breaking the vines binding her with ease. “There you go again, thinking the world’s yours to squish and mold the way you see fit. You know what, Willow? You’re the one that set this whole goddamn end-of-the-world apocalypse thing in motion. It’s because of  _you_  that we’re here. It’s because of  _you_  that Spike’s gone.” Buffy reached out and grabbed Willow’s neck, coiled back the fist of her other hand. “And you’re gonna pay.”

###

From across the street, Layla watched Buffy pound into the witch. Watched as she pummeled her fists and feet and forehead into the young woman, over and over again, until Willow was nothing but meat and muscle and blood without a pulse to push it around.

It was happening so much faster now, that spread of morose desolation that infected people and made them passionate with anger and hatred. And it barely took any effort at all to affect them, to snake her magicks down their throats and into their hearts where it killed all their hopes and dreams. Then, when their anguish was nice and juicy, she'd swoop in and finish them both off.

She sucked in a little taste, just to test the waters. The weaker of the two, the redhead, tasted like strawberries on a spring day, and Layla immediately decided she'd save her for desert. When the slayer's scent hit her nostrils, her whole body jolted. She was immediately met with a familiar twinge of flavor that culled memories she'd forgotten eons ago, an essence that seemed to evoke thoughts of childhood. She couldn't quite place it. 

_There was something very, very special about that one_ , she thought, vowing to take her time as she licked her lips and rubbed her hands together. The slayer's anguish would be the key to resurrecting her beloved, and she wanted to enjoy every moment of it.

### 

Xander was dreaming, of that he was sure.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he’d opened his eyes and immediately felt disoriented and dizzy, like he was wearing a pair of 3D glasses and his eyes were having trouble adjusting. A small shake of his head had eventually cleared enough of the fuzz for a quick scan of nearby landmarks and buildings. Sunnydale.

Only it  _wasn’t_  Sunnydale...at least, not the way he remembered it. It was more of a David Lynch-style Twin peaks version, with frond-less palm trees jutting up out of hills of desert sand, and houses with straw roofs and hard candy windows. Empty, horseless wagons, parked here and there, their wooden wheels buried under drifts of sand. The sky, churning with the swirls of a Van Gogh painting, was yellow and green and blue and pink. And, curiously enough, Big Ben loomed overhead, high over the tree tops as if the structure stood right in the middle of the next block. There was the sudden pop of a firecracker, followed by a loud crash, then the British landmark flickered out of sight like the end of a roll of movie film.

Xander sat there, staring, the crackling and crashing continuing in the distance, his mind racing. Another scan of the surrounding houses pinpointed him on State Street, in front of what looked like the Kirshners’ two-story Dutch Colonial. That meant Buffy’s Craftsman-style was just a street...er, sandlot over, in roughly the same general area recently vacated by the monstrous clock tower.

“Bit surreal, huh?”

The moment he heard the voice, memories of African demons and seas of dark skin and tribal huts and vision quests came rushing back. In that second, it all became stunningly clear: there was method to this madness. He was here for a purpose.

Xander twisted to address his companion and was immediately shocked to silence. The holy man had apparently located the Fountain of Youth on the trip over. Forty years of wear and tear had vanished and crystal clear blue eyes peered back, oddly large and wide open without the curtain of sagging brow skin blocking them. The wrinkles that had once drawn canals over the old man’s face were now smooth, revealing a terribly handsome visage with full lips, a strong nose and cheekbones that softened the instant he smiled.

“You know, you really should market the cosmic facelifts,” said Xander. “You could make a killing.”

The holy man chuckled before nodding his head. “We project our dream selves as we see our real selves. Seem to remember you having only one peeper, too, boy.”

Sure enough, there were soft, bulging bumps behind both eyelids when Xander raised a hand to his face. No eyepatch impeded his left eye, either, which explained why everything seemed so multi-dimensional.

“Hey, groovy,” Xander said appreciatively. “Though admittedly this gives me one less repository for my spare change.”

The shaman rolled his eyes and gestured down the street. “Let’s go, come on. We need to make the most of this quest before the effects of the trance wear off. Walk with me, Xander, and look around you. Remember what you see.”

"Yes, Xander, remember what you see."

Like manna from above, the voice seemed to drift from the heavens. It was sweet and melodious and sarcastic and innocent and oddly literal in a way that only  _she_  could pull off. 

When he turned to look, though, she wasn't there, and her voice was but a memory on the wind.

"Come, Xander," reminded the shaman from up ahead.

Xander nodded and followed the dark-skinned man, forcing himself to pay attention to his surroundings as they made their way to the corner and turned toward the Summers residence. After years of walking beaches, the struggled trek through the sand was expected, but nothing could have prepared him for what he found when they got to Buffy’s.

Hundreds of demonic creatures -- monsters from every slayer mission, nightmare, ghost story and horror flick he'd ever seen -- had gathered at 1630 Revello Drive. They’d seated themselves, backs to the house, in rows upon rows of sports bleachers. Demons from all walks of life cheered and hooted and hollered, and Xander watched them collectively rise and fall with the Wave as it crested over their colorful faces. It was hard to make out more than a few species, they were packed too close together, like satanic sardines, but the flag pennants and foam fingers waving over their heads were hard to miss...as were the words sprawled across them: “#1 SLAYER” and “GO WITCH.”

Xander barely had a chance to make sense of what he was reading when another loud crash caught his attention. He spun, instantly horrified to find Buffy and Willow, locked in a heated battle from nearby opposing hills of sand. The Slayer had obviously just thrown a punch, judging by the sound of the crash and the hand Willow was currently holding to a bloodied nose, but the witch didn’t appear interested in wasting too much time nursing her wounds. A light, filled with a neon green brighter than he’d ever seen before, shot out of Willow’s fingertips, jagging in criss-crosses like a heartbeat monitor straight into Buffy’s chest. The slayer fell and didn’t move for the space of two breaths.

"Kill her!"

"Finish her!"

The crowd went wild in support of the witch as demons of all shapes and sizes rose to their feet with boisterous cheering. When Buffy finally rose again, the crowd quieted, seating themselves again in anticipation of the next round. Even after every other butt had met its seat, one lone human stood. A man with a platinum crown and a pale face that towered over a sea of inhuman ones.  _Spike._ And for the space of a couple heartbeats, the vampire simply stood there and stared back at Xander. Then the crowd went wild again and he was gone. 

_Remember everything_ , Xander reminded himself as he turned his attention back to the main event. 

Buffy’s eyes were red with fury, and she advanced on the witch like a lion on the prowl. Instantly on guard, Willow threw a spell that missed Buffy’s shoulder by about a foot, and the error proved enough of a distraction to gain Buffy full advantage. It took only seconds. The Slayer leapt to Willow’s side and grabbed the witch by the neck, then twisted her wrist with just enough force to resound a loud crack. The witch, her back broken, fell lifelessly to the ground.

A cheer rose up from the grandstands, but the crescendo of demonic merry-making dinned almost as quickly as it started. The demons and bleachers and Willow’s body shifted from varying, vivid colors to an overwhelmingly boring palette of tans and browns. Only Buffy was left in full color, her skin a rosy, shimmery glow, eyes shifting from red to emerald green, and blonde hair billowing behind her like strands of pure gold.

She seemed to light up like the sun, her skin emitting a golden shimmer, and the black leather she wore stood out in stark contrast to the muted neutrals of everything around her. She looked directly at Xander and cocked her head to the side.

“Spores in time, pawns at play, in a wasteland devoid of love and hope,” she said.

“Can someone please tell me why no one  _ever_  speaks plain English in these things?” Xander complained to the shaman, but he didn’t get a response.

Dream Buffy went on. “Love is our gift.”

“Naturally, a rerun.” Xander said. “You know, directors today, they have to no sense of originality. We really should ask for our money back.”

“Love is our gift,” Dream Buffy repeated. “Together as one, us and you, little brother, for the sake of the world. Sow the seeds, and right this wasteland.”

From behind the bleacher crept a beautiful woman, with eyes the color of the night, her skin heavily creamed coffee, a glossy mane of mahogany hair flowing in soft, shiny waves to the small of her back. She wore a slinky dress of red, with a deep V that cut to below her navel, so deep that Xander wondered how her breasts weren’t popping out. The hemline flared just above knees that were smooth and slender.

“Alaylashmi,” whispered the shaman in awe from behind Xander’s shoulder.

Xander was confused. “Who?”

“Alaylashmi,” repeated his guide, his voice still low. Then he added, “Layla.”

The woman walked toward Buffy, who’d snapped back into the action shot as if she’d never gone all Oracle-at-Delphi only seconds before. Layla’s hips twisted sensually with each step closer, goading Buffy's gaze upwards to eyes that had started glowing and spinning.

When Buffy finally looked up at her, the very instant the two women locked eyes, Layla’s approach abruptly halted. They stood there, mere feet from one another, staring for long, long seconds.

Suddenly Layla gasped, whispered the name “Mary Bayhan”...and then the Slayer's body just...sorta...dissolved.

Seconds later, all that was left of Buffy was a small pile of fossilized dust.

The sky, with its swirls of pinks and greens and blues, went completely black, and a bolt of lightning ripped through the center of it, opening it up like a giant zipper. Molten lava poured out from the zipper's opening, covering everything, Sunnydale and the horseless carriages and the demons and the foam fingers, smoldering the sand into glass, leaving everything in its wake frozen in time.

Xander couldn't move as the river of burning rock pooled around his ankles and melted the flesh off his toes and the soles of his feet. The pain was excruciating, the sounds torturous as his skin hissed and popped like a hush puppy in hot oil. He wrenched his head to the side, to where the shaman had been only moments before, but he was alone.

"Xander," came the holy man's voice in his ear. "Let go. Just let go."

But then his ankles melted...then his knees...and then the lava rose to his thighs and over his whole lower body.

"Relax, boy. It's not real," reminded the shaman. "Close your eyes."

But Xander just screamed and screamed and screamed for his life, until his throat was raw and the magma reached his lungs and melted them, too. Without the means to draw his next breath, Xander finally closed his eyes and blissfully succumbed to the whirling blackness.


	6. Chapter Six: The Handle Toward My Hand

**Chapter Six: The Handle Toward My Hand**

 

 

Driving had never really been all that important to Buffy. She could, after all, walk just about anywhere in Sunnydale. And in the event a more distant destination made driving unavoidable, there was nearly always a ride she could bum from Spike, Giles or one of the Scoobies. She’d only driven Mom’s Jeep a handful of times.

The relocation to a vastly larger, much more populous locale hadn’t changed her preferred mode of transportation, either. Buffy'd sooner be found hoofing it on foot than behind the wheel, or else she'd just hitch a ride with Faith or one of the baby slayers if it was too far to walk.

As far as she’d always been concerned, Buffy plus car _totally_ equals unmixy.

With the exception of one particularly memorable driving experience.

Several years before, somewhere between her stint in the psych ward and the big move to Sunnydale, Buffy had spent a week at her Aunt Carol’s beach house in Palos Verdes. Failed marriage number four had left Hank Summers’ younger sister a very, _very_ wealthy woman. One with a desire for a rock star return to singlehood that coincided rather nicely with Buffy’s desire for an escape from reality.

Which meant plenty of high-class girl time, a few covert glasses of expensive wine, about 42 pounds of imported Swiss chocolate, and Aunt Carol’s newest post-alimony acquisition: a brand new, cherry red Ferrari 348 convertible.

Hot damn, but that car had been _fierce_. It oozed power and sex, intrigue and confidence, and made every day a top-down, sun-in-your-face, careening-through-life’s-tunnel-of-wind Thrill Spectacular and Extravaganza.

Then, near the end of their time together, Aunt Carol had issued the chocolate-covered offer to top all offers: she’d asked Buffy if she wanted to drive.

It never occurred to Buffy -- not even for a single second -- to admit to her aunt that she didn’t have her license, and she hadn’t said a word about the unmixiness that was Buffy and anything with wheels. She’d simply taken the keys, hopped into the front left bucket seat and driven carefully to the nearest interstate entrance ramp. Then she’d floored the pedal, the tires had chirped, and she’d let off the brake.

And had what she’d later learn was her very first orgasm.

That box of mechanized sex had renewed in Buffy a sense of power and gave her back a confidence in her Calling that she’d lost in the aftermath of Hemery High. Pulled her out of a dark place in a way no pill or couch confessional could’ve ever done.

And though it had taken her nearly a decade and a shitload of sacrifice before she got behind the wheel of another one, Buffy discovered that the driver’s seat of an Italian sports car still held the same magical effect.

Now, she squealed with glee, speeding east on I-80, fondling the patch of buttery leather stretched over the gear shift of her new, hot pink Lamborghini Diablo. A modernized body style and some upgrades in technology had changed the wrapper of her psychotherapy on wheels, but inside, the results were the same: no more desolation, no more depression.

Buffy felt crazy strong and ah-fucking-mazing.

Who cared if her driving skills were shitty at best? Or that she’d acquired the car through somewhat...unethical means? Didn’t the Slayer -- the one girl in all the world chosen to stand against the forces of darkness -- deserve a little prezzie after all she’d been through? After all the darkness she’d faced and the enemies she’d conquered? She’d worked hard for this.

Okay...so she’d stolen it. Right out from under the driver, in the middle of Spring Street, on the front steps of the Los Angeles offices of Wolfram & Hart. Straight up carjacked the bitch in broad daylight.

Peeled down the middle of downtown and on her merry way.

Outrunning the cops.

So what? She’d seen the car and she’d decided she wanted it. Simple as that. Want, take, have.

And anyways, there’s no way that whore had deserved a set of wheels as badass as these. She hadn’t appreciated the car for the power it yielded. Hadn’t worked for it or earned it, saved countless lives, sacrificed her childhood, her family, her home, her heart.

And fuck, if Layla hadn’t been _totally right_. The anguish? It had been delicious. _Ridiculously_ delicious. Buffy could still smell the panic as she’d pulled the car’s owner from the driver’s seat and pummeled the woman to death with her bare hands. Could still taste the fear lacing the woman’s breath as the life drained, little by little, from the top of her perfectly coiffed black hair right down to her snakeskin Manolo Blahniks.

Buffy smirked, lifting the ball of her left foot off the clutch pedal, twisting her ankle on the sharp stiletto heel so she could admire the design of the pumps.

She’d always wanted Manolos, too.

Then she drew her fingers around the shifter as she pumped the clutch and threw the transmission into sixth gear. Reached for her cell phone and one-hand-dialed the Cleveland apartment.

Faith picked up on the second ring, yawning. “‘Lo?”

“Good, you’re home,” said Buffy. She frowned when the minivan to her left swerved into her lane and pressed the gas pedal further against the floor to pull ahead of the offending vehicle.

“Yeah, I’m home.” Faith said. “’S that you, B?”

Buffy turned the steering wheel sharply, veering the Diablo into the left lane with a screech of the tires. “Mm-hmm,” she affirmed distractedly and pressed the button on her door to lower the window.

“So, uh, what’s up?” Faith prompted. There was a soft groan under the other slayer’s breath. Buffy figured she was stretching. “And this better be good. I was just gettin’ to the creamy center of a threesome with Eminem and Vin Diesel.”

In Buffy’s rearview mirror, Minivan Chick was flipping her off and mouthing a collection of silent obscenities from the cabin of the Mom Mobile. Buffy simply smiled, grabbed the chocolate shake she’d ordered a few exits back, and threw the remainder of its contents out the window. Leaned back in the low seat and watched in the reflection, satisfied as a thick wave of brown, icy goo splattered across the left side of the minivan’s windshield. It suddenly screeched to a stop, wipers engaged, horn blaring.

“Serves you right, you trollop,” Buffy screamed into the wind, laughing and saluting with her own middle finger as she sped off into the night. She’d heard Spike say the word once and had liked how it sounded. _Trollop_.  “Now stay away from my pretty car.”

“Whatcha doin’, B? Y’sound a little...off,” Faith was saying, clearly not sure what to make of Buffy’s behavior. “You on the grog again, baby girl? Somethin’ wrong?”

“Nah, some fat bitch just cut me off. It’s all good. I was only calling to make sure you’d be around when I got there. I’m ’bout an hour away.”

“Oh, um, you’re on the way? Done in L.A. already? How’d it go?”

"No, not really done. Just coming to take care of a few things. Then I’m going back,” Buffy replied. “Guess what?”

 “Hmm?”

 “I got a pretty pink car! Just like Barbie!” As an afterthought, she added, “It goes very fast.”

 “Yeah,” Faith replied slowly and then switched gears. “So, listen...is, uh, is Willow around?”

 “Nope,” Buffy said again. A manic giggle flooded the blonde Slayer’s voice. “ _Willow, Willow, the big bad witch. Can’t talk now ’cuz I killed the bitch!_ ” She giggled again at her impromptu ditty. “I’m a poet and I didn’t know it!”

A loud screech and the rev of an engine drew Buffy’s eyes back up to her rearview mirror. She must’ve decelerated while talking to Faith, because the minivan was coming up over the hill behind the Lamborghini, and the suburban soccer mom -- an ugly, heavyset woman with frizzy red hair and the face of a blob fish -- was presently hanging out the open window, screaming and shaking her fist in Buffy’s direction.

“Would you look at the balls on _this_ bitch.” Buffy mumbled, slowing a bit more and lowering the passenger side window. As it pulled up alongside the pink sports car, waves of rage beamed off the minivan, radiating like an echo into and around the compact cabin of the Diablo.

Buffy could taste the hatred on her tongue. Just like Layla had taught her.

Into the mouthpiece of the phone, she said, “Gotta go, Faithie. Have something I need to do before I get there. Won’t be long. See ya soon.”

And then she flipped the cell phone shut and threw it on the seat beside her, veering sharply to the right and into the minivan’s front fender. The maneuver surprised the other driver, and the woman screamed in panic as she lost control of the boxy vehicle. It tipped off both of its left wheels for a second or two, then slammed back down and into a fishtail. Once the woman righted it on its course, she glared back at Buffy.

Laughing with glee, the Slayer swerved a second time, hitting the side of the minivan hard enough to knock it off of the strip of asphalt, into the guardrail and over the shoulder of the road. The vehicle tumbled, bottom over top, into the grassy ditch lining the interstate.

Buffy laughed again, but her mirth quickly dissolved into a frustrated sigh as she realized the car was probably ruined. Chewing her lips, she skidded to a halt, shoved the shifter into park and jumped out to survey the damage. The anxiety made her very, very angry. She didn't like to be angry.

The Lambo’s right front fender was dented and cracked, bent in odd angles at either end. The mirror was hanging by an electrical cable and there was a gash across the door panel. The chrome on the front wheel’s rim was scratched to hell. Driveable, sure, but a major eyesore nonetheless. All that pretty, shiny, sparkly hot pink and silver sexiness...now just a giant jumble of scratches and dents and sharp metal edges.

Buffy pouted. She’d worked so damn hard to get the car.

“How dare you!” a voice shrieked from behind her.

Buffy turned her head toward the noise, looking over her shoulder and down the grassy embankment, watching as the driver struggled to pull herself out of the hatchback of the minivan. The woman’s face and upper torso were a bloody mess, the right leg of her pink Bermuda shorts ripped nearly to the waist, and she stumbled with an obvious limp in her right ankle.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch?” she yelled, stalking awkwardly up the hill to where Buffy and the parked sports car stood waiting. “Think you’re the fucking shit in that car, don’tcha? Don’tcha?”

 _Oh, snap,_ thought the Slayer. First this bitch totals her pretty pink car, then she comes on all Matilda the Hun like she was gonna kick Buffy’s ass. Soccer Mom had _no clue_ who she was messing with.

A wave of fresh hatred swirled in the bottom of Buffy’s belly. It slithered up her throat like a snake and filled her eyes with an evil gleam. A small smirk turned the corners of her lips up and outward.

Their eyes suddenly met and the heavyset woman gasped. “What the...what the hell are you?” she whispered, backing away slightly. She tried to tear her eyes away -- Buffy could feel it her struggling -- but her body eventually relaxed and she acquiesced. Just as Buffy knew she would.

“That’s a good girl,” the Slayer crooned, reaching out to run her hand down the woman’s cheek as if she was petting a poodle. Ew, with skin that was rough to the touch and that smelled worse than a double shift back at the DMP. Buffy grimaced. “Have you never heard of moisturizer? Or soap, for that matter? Geez Louise.” Then she looked down at the Lamborghini and pouted. “You know, you ruined my new car. That wasn’t very nice of you. It took me a really long time to find it. And lots and lots of work.”

The woman whimpered.

 “Now I need a new car, thanks to you. And I can't even take yours, 'cuz...well, that stupid ass minivan you got laying down there in the ditch?” Buffy asked. “What the fuck were you thinking with that shit? I bet you've even got those stupid little stick figures in the back window. A daddy stick figure and a little ballerina and a midget with a baseball glove. And a dog. You got’em right back there with a couple of those dumbass _Honor Student of the Month_ bumper stickers, huh?

The woman just kept whimpering.

“Don’tcha? _Don’tcha_?" Buffy mimicked the other driver's midwestern accent, then rolled her eyes in disgust. "God, have you completely given up on life?”

The woman’s whimpers became softer, and she made no effort to break eye contact or fight Buffy’s control. The blonde slayer watched for a few seconds, then finally sighed.

“You know, it’s no fun when they don’t fight back,” she muttered, and reached out to push the other woman down to the ground. Placed a hand on either side of the whimpering female’s face, crouched down low, eyes still locked tight.

“Someone very, very important _burned_ so you could live,” Buffy said, her voice low and each word annunciated, like a parent warning a toddler. “He gave his _unlife_ for you so you could march your fat ass out to your ugly minivan, trot around your brood of ugly anklebiters, go on about your boring life, day after day. What the fuck makes _you_ so special?”

And with a sharp twist, she broke Minivan Mama’s neck and allowed the woman to drop, lifelessly, to the ground. Then she walked back to the damaged Lamborghini, got in, and sped off into the night.

Cleveland or bust.

###

Xander felt dizzy when he awoke, half of his brain convinced he’d merely blinked, the other half certain he’d been parked in a hell dimension for hours. It took a minute to orient himself in the space between the burning lava and cheefed out bungalow, but awareness eventually set in and he jumped to his feet.

And then just kind of stood there awkwardly, not really sure what to do next.

His head was pounding a wicked tribal drumbeat, and he tensed and loosened his shoulders in an effort to keep his skin from crawling. Talk about heebie jeebies. Is this what Buffy went through with _every_ Slayer dream?

“So...what do you think?” the shaman’s voice culled Xander’s attention from across the room.

Xander turned his head a little too quickly -- his brain took a second or two to wobble around before it followed suit -- and immediately noted that the old man’s eyes were lit with vigor, a sure sign he’d been a bit more successful with the post-quest jet lag currently tormenting Xander. Holy Man’s youthful features were once again hidden by wrinkled folds of skin, and he stood at a tiny table in the kitchen, tipping a plastic pitcher over a pair of mismatched glasses. One of these, he walked over and handed to the still-silent Xander. The other glass, he touched to his own lips, closing his eyes with satisfaction as he drew a sip from the liquid inside.

Xander knocked back his own mouthful, and a flood of cool, sour-sweet lemonade hit his tongue, instantly energizing him.

 _Calgon, Calgon, take me away_ , he thought to himself as the hangover disappeared like magic.

“What do I think?” Xander echoed once he’d nodded appreciatively at the shaman. “Well, that depends. Do I lead with a critical review of _Buffy and Willow Beyond Thunderdome_ or would Captain Peroxide’s guest appearance be a better conversation starter?”

In the silence that followed, Xander drew a second gulp of lemonade between his teeth. He smacked his lips together, stared at the straw ceiling. Pondered the old man’s unanswered question.

“I guess I don’t really know _what_ to think yet,” Xander finally said. He set the drink down and took a deep breath, running his hand through his hair so the moisture from the glass’s surface wet the strands and left them standing on end. Then he set his feet to pacing circles on the worn floor, took a half dozen steps before speaking again. “I mean, there’s not really anything that makes sense to me right now. The demons...the cheering...the fighting. I mean, there’s a reason I don’t get the prophetic dreams.” Xander spun to face the shaman. “Shit, Willow...and Buffy...what am I _supposed_ to think after watching my best friends beat each other to death?”

Outside, he could hear a few kids shouting to one another. A dog bark.

Inside, only silence.

A stray tear escaped. Xander hadn’t even realized he’d started crying, and he swiped at his one eye with a frustrated fist. “And then there’s all this...I don’t know... _spores in time_ and _little brother_ and _pawns at play_ shit. Always with the crytograms. What the hell do they even mean? How does it all make sense? I mean... _fuck._ ” Defeated, he lowered his head and rested his palms on his waist.

“You know how these things usually work, Xander,” the shaman finally remarked. “The little pieces aren’t meant to fit together right away. It takes a little while before the chaos starts to make more sense.”

“Buddy, I’ve completely skipped Chaosville. I’ve crossed the border into Panic Land and am careening, full speed, in the direction of Terror City. All’s I know is the newest big bad’s about to go all _Resident Evil_ on the world, and _I’m_ the one’s supposed to stop it from happening. _Me._ Glorified bricklayer and unimportant sidekick extraordinaire.” He rolled his eyes. “Someone in the PTB’s got a _wicked_ sense of humor.”

“Xander, you only _think_ you’re unimportant,” the shaman replied. “But you’re wrong. You’re far more special than you’ve ever allowed yourself to imagine.”

“Yeah,” Xander harrumphed. “And now I imagine you’re about to give me ‘you are special’ pep talk before I climb on the short bus to hell, right? I think I’ve had this conversation before...and with someone much younger, much prettier and, frankly, a bit more convincing than you are.”

“You _are_ special,” the shaman repeated firmly. “You see what others don’t.”

He really should’ve gotten a cape. Capes were so underrated.

“What, do you think you ended up here by chance?” The shaman smiled. “That you’re just some kind of a last resort?”

Xander snorted. “Uh, the thought _had_ crossed my mind, friend.”

The old man nodded. “The Key is wise beyond her human years, Xander, and her words to you were more than simply the support of a friend. What she said, about the seeing...the knowing? It _is_ your super power. She knew it then, deep down. Perhaps not even consciously at the time, but she knew. You just didn’t listen.”

“Mm-hmm, and say what now?”

“C'mon, you know the story. Dawn is an ancient, mystical energy with the power to unlock dimensions and see into other worlds." When Xander nodded, the holy man continued. "And she saw into _you_. The fact that neither of you realized it doesn’t negate the fact that it happened. She saw into you and discovered your true self.”

“Mm-hmm, okay,” Xander replied. “Mr. Keen Observiness, that’s me.” He rolled his eyes and shook his head as he started pacing again. There was clearly no reason to argue a moot point. There were bigger fish to fry. “Look...are Will and Buffy okay? I mean...fuck, what did I…?” And then, the panic was suddenly building again, this time with the the force of a somewhat large semi truck. “What did they...? Are they okay? Do you know?”

“No.”

 “No, they’re not okay? Or no, you don’t know?”

 “No, they’re not okay,” came the clarification, in a somewhat familiar voice that originated from behind a cloud of purple smoke that had, only milliseconds before, appeared in the center of the hut.

As quickly as it materialized, the smoke misted away, leaving a pale blue-faced demon in its wake.

Xander nearly fell over in surprise.

“If Ms. Rosenberg and the Slayer have yet to succumb,” continued D’Hoffryn, as easily as if he’d been part of the conversation from the start, “they will soon. And they’re only a few steps ahead of the rest of this godforsaken world. Better get a good look around you, Mr. Harris, because once it gets started, this entire dimension is gonna detonate faster than Bennifer post- _Gigli_.”

 

 


	7. Chapter Seven: Art Thou Not Fatal Vision

**Chapter Seven: Art Thou Not Fatal Vision**

 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Xander spewed at the new visitor.

“Mr. Harris, how lovely to see you again.” D’Hoffryn raised his palms. “I come in peace. I mean no harm. Like you, I am merely a pawn.”

Almost to himself, Xander muttered, “What the fuck is it with this _pawn_ shit?” A little louder, “I don’t play games with demons, you... _demon_. Least of all with the likes of you.”

D’Hoffryn placed a mocking hand over his heart. “Ever the gallant gentleman.”

Xander scowled. “Oh, come-”

“You are both guests in my home,” the shaman interrupted. He’d remained silent through the previous exchange, but now his voice carried a note of admonishment, like a father scolding his naughty children. “Let’s please try to maintain _some_ sense of decorum. Remember, we have a mutual goal here.”

“Mutual goal? He nearly killed Anya,” snapped Xander, pointing at the offender. “Twice. Thrice, even!” He held three fingers high, eyes wide, to emphasize a desperately-made statement. “And let’s not forget the dozens of times after _that_ he sent someone _else_ to do the killing _for_ him. Or the times he tried to _lure_ Willow over to the dark side? Mutual goal, my ass!”

“I owe you no explanations, Mr. Harris,” D’Hoffryn defended, his voice low, cautionary. Then he sighed and raised his hands in capitulation. “But I will give them to you nonetheless.”

The demon made a show of arranging his robes around his wrists, drawing out the silence as the other two men waited for him to respond.

“As much as you’d like to blame me,” D’Hoffryn began, “rules must be followed. Universal truths. Anyanka was with me for more than a thousand years, and she knew the consequences of _every_ rule she broke. _Every one of them,_ ” he repeated sternly before his expression went soft. “And my heart broke with each of them. I cherished her. I never stopped loving her-”

“I’m sure. Never stopped, even when you were hiring out contracts on her head.”

“Even then,” came the demon’s immediate acknowledgement.

Xander snorted.

“Why is it still so hard for you to believe a demon is capable of love?” D’Hoffryn asked. “Yes! I _loved_ Anyanka as if she were my own blood. My own flesh and horns. If you weren’t so busy being narrow-minded, you’d see that. And you’d understand you’re not all alone in your grief.”

“That’s rich,” Xander muttered under his breath. Trusting the demon’s sincerity took a whole lot more effort than he was ready to expend just yet. “You suffered along with me, right up until you found the next Scorned Suzie to woo over to the Dark Side. You humble me with the level of your suffering, _Hoff.”_ Xander shook his head. “Get bent.”

D’Hoffryn’s eyes simmered with anger. He stood up straighter, seemed to grow a foot taller to impose over the other two men. “You’d best watch your mouth, human. I could make your entrails bleed out of your eye sockets without so much as a breath, and before you even thought to fight back, I’d be gone.”

Xander rolled his eyes, feigning aloofness.

“As I recall,” the demon continued, “it wasn’t so long ago when it was _your_ suffering in question. When it was _you_ who had caused the great offense to Anyanka and _I_ who was cleaning up the mess you’d left behind.”

“Oh-ho-ho, ’sat right?” laughed Xander. “Cleaning up the mess? Is _that_ what we’re calling it? Ha! More like handing her the red pill right back down into the evil rabbit hole. And anyways, _so_ not the issue here, Papa Smurf.”

This time, it was D’Hoffryn who went with the eye roll of exasperation. “What is it with...and why do you assume my intentions with Ms. Rosenberg were evil? SoI tried to recruit her a few times. The girl’s a vengeance natural!” The blue demon shrugged. “And anyways, she declined my offer every time I asked. I never pushed. Tell me, what’s so evil about that?”

The guy had a point, but Xander remained silent nonetheless. He knew he was being deliberately stubborn. He just refused to admit defeat to a _demon_.

“You may not agree with my methods,” D’ Hoffryn went on. “But you can hardly deny their purpose. The clients I serve have a legitimate need.”

“Legita-”

But movement caught Xander’s eye before he could finish his thought. The shaman was shuffling back to his cushion on the floor, his palms up for a moment to shush his companions, then waving to either side in an invitation to join him in front of the fire.

Xander hurried to arrange himself on the orange and red cushions. Once he’d stilled, the shaman quietly said, “You must get over your past prejudices if you have any hope of changing the future. This is not just _your_ future we are discussing, Xander, but the future of the world as we know it. And we have no time to argue past hurts. D’Hoffryn is here because knows his place in this fight. It’s time you learned yours as well.”

Noting the younger man’s tense shoulders, the shaman waved a hand, and sense of calm blanketed the air within the hut. “Your anger and pain are strong,” he continued, “and you’ve relied upon them to get you this far. But they’re mere shadows compared to what’s bolstered you through countless other battles. You _feel_.”

Xander made a move to interrupt, but the shaman shushed him.

“You look at the world around you,” he said, gesturing with wide arms to emcompass everything within the cozy dimness of the little hut. “And you empathize with those who are hurting. You _see_ things...often what others don’t.” In a quieter voice, almost as an aside, he added, “That’s not to say you don’t sometimes fail _miserably_ at it. Even _you_ can admit your mind can be a bit...narrow.”

The blue demon snorted, drew his hand up to his mouth and coughed...a harsh, hacking sound that sounded a lot like “Anya” behind his closed fist.

Xander sneered, but the shaman’s exasperated sigh drew all attention back to him. “Enough,” came his quiet reproach. He turned to the younger man. “For what reason did you come to Africa, Xander?”

“Not sure it was really my intention from the start,” Xander answered. “I kinda hopped onto a plane and didn’t found out where I was headed until we’d been in the air for six hours and I had at least twice that many mini liquor bottles sloshing around in my belly.” Then Xander looked down at the floor and scratched the crown of his head, embarrassed by his next statement. “By the time we’d landed, I was certain there was a reason I was in the same place ol’ Evil Dead got his soul back. Figured I was due something...you know, that I deserved a prize for all my hard work. That the universe was feelin’ charitable.”

“ _Dignity does not consist in possessing honors, but in deserving them_ ,” quoted the shaman.

“And what, pray tell, did you feel you deserved?” prodded D’Hoffryn. “What were you going to ask for?”

“Action Comics, issue one.” Xander’s voice was strong and certain as he  looked directly at the demon. _When in doubt, sarcasm always works_ , he thought, smirking at the demon’s irritation. “Do you know how much that sucker’s worth? I mean, it’s Superman’s first appearance and all...”

D’Hoffryn merely groaned.

Xander rolled his eyes. “Oh, chill out, compadre. I’m joking.” And then he shrugged. “I’d want Anya back.” When D’Hoffryn took a breath to reply, Xander raised his hand, interrupting. “I know, I know. Mortal death, not mystical, balance of the universe, yadda yadda yadda. I get it. Trust me, the idea sounded a helluva lot better when it was swimming in a dozen or so shots of tequila.” He ran his hand over his head, swiped the hand down over his face. Sighed in frustration.

The shaman studied Xander’s face but didn’t say anything. D’Hoffryn looked thoughtful.

“And you’re aware of what your vampire went through to get his _own_ request granted?” the demon inquired.

“Trial and tribulations, blood and guts. Mm-hmm, yeah. So?” Xander prodded, already pretty sure of where this was going.

“And you were prepared to spill your own?” prodded the demon.

Xander shrugged.

“You were planning on walking into that desert cave,” continued D’Hoffryn, “and inciting the punishment of a remarkably merciless demon in order to gain the reward you felt was due you?”

“Maybe you’re not keeping up,” Xander snarked. “As I was saying, me and my pal, Jose Cuervo, had a big discussion and reached the conclusion that I’d already fulfilled the whole blood-spilling trials and torture bit.”

“Oh, I see. So you were expecting this demon to accept _that_ as payment?” D’Hoffryn asked with a smirk.

“Never said it made sense,” mumbled Xander.

“Clearly,” agreed the demon. Then he took a breath and nodded. “But I’ll surprise you. It was a good start. A misguided one, perhaps, but a good start nonetheless. You were correct in a few things: you _do_ deserve some help from the universe and you _will_ need the assistance of a demon to get it. Just not in the way you think.”

“And I assume you’re the one to help me, right?” asked Xander.

“Not just myself,” replied D’Hoffryn. “But yes.”

“By doing what?”

“He gives you the power to fulfill your destiny,” D’Hoffryn replied simply, tipping his head toward the shaman. Then he pointed at his own chest and said, “I grant the wish that puts you at the starting point.” With a finger dipped toward Xander, he finished with: “And then you save the world.”

“Mind if I catch that again on its second tour around?”

“He imbues, I grant, you save,” repeated the demon.

“Yeah, um... _still_ didn’t catch it. This whole... _middle_ phase of the project...it’s a bit problematic for me, friend,” said Xander. “Just what wish exactly will you be granting? ‘Cause last I checked, wishes to you and yours _rarely_ turn out the way you want ‘em to.”

“Not when properly done. And in this case, we will ensure it’s properly done.”

 _Properly done,_ Xander thought, _to benefit whom?_ But he stayed quiet. “Why?” He finally asked. “What exactly do _you_ get out of it? I mean, I see how defeating Layla’s good for us...you know, those of us interested in saving mankind and all. But what about you? What’s in it for you? I mean, you’re...evil. Why not just go back to Arashma-whatsit, let Buffy and Will go all vengeancy, then come back and wreak the benefits on the back end?”

The horned demon sighed deeply, considering his reply. “I’ll be perfectly honest, Mr. Harris. If the legend of Layla is true, and she somehow returns to this plane….” He shook his head. “Those of us who _can_ leave this dimension will have no choice but to do so...and in a _mad dash_. In the space of a few weeks, everything you see around you will be gone. _Gone_. This planet will be a wasteland.”

“Right,” Xander prompted, “that’s kinda my point about the whole-”

“But the truth is, Mr. Harris,” the demon interrupted, “I like this world the way it is. You’ve got beignets with cafe au lait. Winnebagos. Swiss Chocolate. Lizzie McGuire,” D’Hoffryn shuddered with delight. “And most importantly, you’ve got _people_. Billions of people, walking around like revenge-seeking dollar signs on legs, most of them unable or unwilling to mete out proper vengeance on their own. So you see, I’ve got a vested interest in keeping all of you somewhat alive.”

##  D’Hoffryn glanced over sheepishly at the shaman.

“Plus I miss my Anyanka,” the demon went on. “She wasn’t a vengeance demon when she died, and she didn’t perish by magical means, so I’m not permitted to resurrect her myself. The rules of the universe must be followed.” D’Hoffryn shrugged. “But I think this makes a fine loophole. You and I both get what we want, and I’m not out of a job."

“Are you familiar with the story of Sineya?” The shaman’s question seemed to come out of nowhere, confusing an already overwhelmed Xander. The old man clarified. “The First Slayer.”

“Mmm, oh yeah. Badass rasta mama with a slayer-sized chip on her shoulder, right?” When the shaman nodded, Xander went on. “Got chained down and shot up with some demon essence. I caught the Tim Burton version. Way I hear it, Buffy’s live action screening was much more...realistic. Fun times had by all. Not real sure how that’s relevant here, though.” He turned back to D’Hoffryn. “Hey, can go back to the whole get the power,  make a wish, save the world thing again? ’Cause I-”

“That’s exactly what I’m _trying_ to do, Xander,” said the shaman, shaking his head in frustration. “The Shadow Men who performed that ritual...they were my brothers.”

“Your brothers?” Xander asked, wondering if he meant that like in a blood relation sense -- which would make him...ancient -- or in the fraternity sense, as in _Delta Beta Shaman: Membership with a vision_.

“My brethren,” the old man agreed, clarifying nothing. “They imbued the First Slayer with extraordinary gifts.” He sighed. “Using methods hardly better than the demon from which the powers were stolen….” The shaman hung his head regretfully for a moment, but when he lifted it again, his eyes were clear and resolute. “But desperate times call for desperate measures, Xander, and I’m afraid the times in which we find ourselves are, once again, desperate.”

Xander’s head tilted, a confused look on his face as he looked from the shaman to the demon and back again to the shaman. “So, what, you’re gonna chain me up in a cave? Stuff me full of demon stardust and force me to make a wish?”

“There will be no forcing, Xander. You have my word. The choice will be left up to you, though I suspect I already know what that choice will be.”

“And what would that be?” the young man asked.

“One, you want Anya back. Two, you’ve always felt that you were less... _special_ than your friends,” the old man said. “Right on both?”

“Mm-hmm, and lemme guess,” remarked Xander, a mocking lilt steeped in his voice. “I am vewy vewy special, too, right?”

The shaman nodded, unmoved by the sarcasm. “You _are_ special. I’ve said it already. But I can make you see it, too, Xander. I can make you more _like_ them, and he” -- the shaman pointed a finger at D’Hoffryn -- “can get you _back_ to them.”

Xander grunted noncommittally.

“There’s a race of demons called the Splenden who possess extremely powerful telepathic powers. Strong enough even to read the minds of vampires, who are typically immune to telepathy. When imbued with the essence of this demon, the powers that already reside within your heart will, with proper cultivation, sustain you through the journey you face.” The shaman looked deep into Xander’s eyes. “They are the key to your victory, Xander. Without them, there is no hope of defeating the evil within Layla.”

“Au contraire, mon frere..” Xander shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve already placed a shit ton of faith in this second rate sidekick. Now you’re telling me you’re gonna shoot me up with some monster and his  mind-reading mumbo jumbo, and _that’s_ how I’m supposed to stop the world from ending?”

The shaman nodded, holding up a hand of reassurance. “It’s only the essence, boy. Merely a demon’s powers, not the demon itself-”

“Though the Splenden, incidentally, is what you White Hats might call a _good_ demon,” D’Hoffryn interrupted. With a chuckle, he added, “Not that that makes any difference to _you_. Demons are as demons do, right?”

Xander scowled.

“Need I remind you that your Slayer carries the essence of a demon within her soul, Xander? And that the love of your life -- the woman for whom you traveled thousands of miles to resurrect -- she was a demon for nearly a dozen centuries?” The shaman peered into his eyes. “Does that make either any less human in your eyes?”

“No,” Xander replied, the word coming out slowly as he reflected on the old man’s words. “No, it doesn’t.”

“And for you, it’s a gift freely given and a gift freely taken,” said D’Hoffryn. “The Splenden has agreed to the exchange, and it won’t happen unless you do, too.”

“Once the ritual is completed, the gift of enhanced sight will make you an equal, Xander. The Witches. The Watcher. The Key. The Seer. The Ex-Demon. The Slayer.” The shaman paused for effect. “And the Vampire.”

Xander rolled his eyes and expelled his breath in a huff. “Dude always finds a way to weasel his bloodsucking ass into the picture, doesn’t he?”

#  “What you’ll find, though, is that the part he plays is significant,” said D’Hoffryn with a chuckle and a knowing smile. “And the kicker is...had Spike actually been given the opportunity to...how did you put it?” The demon drew air quotes with his hands. “ _Weasel his bloodsucking ass into the picture_? Well, if you’d let him then, we never would have ended up here in the first place.”

 

*~*~*

 

The shrill chirp of his cell phone was the only thing keeping Rupert Giles from the sleep his body craved. He’d let it ring -- the quilt pulled up over his nose, a frustrated arm thrown over eyes he was finding harder and harder to keep shut -- two full cycles, straight to voicemail.

The caller had yet to get the hint.

It had been a long day. Expense reports and new registrations and health insurance reimbursement forms and continuing education requests…. Just the thought of all of the paperwork still awaiting his attention made his head spin in circles, his lungs feel short of breath.

He was trained to prepare the Slayer -- _a_ Slayer, full stop -- to fight demonic forces. When he’d become responsible for an _army_ of slayers, he’d carried on, as expected and without complaint. _Up and at’em, Adam Ant, a watcher’s duty never ends._

But for the life of him, he couldn’t recall agreeing to push papers like some bloody desk clerk.

His neck was always dreadfully sore from the hours bent over a keyboard, his eyes constantly feeling as if he’d branded them with smouldering rods. He believed in the Council and what they were rebuilding, but _dear lord_ , he needed a holiday.

Preferably somewhere secluded and technologically regressive.

With a good deal of Scotch.

And no cell phones. Like the blasted device that was now on the far end of its third cycle of chirps.

Grumbling, Giles looked to the clock on his right. He’d been asleep less than two hours and his wakeup time loomed that much ahead of him. He had just enough patience to fumble for his mobile, flip it open and glance at the caller ID.

Cleveland area code. A slayer.

He sighed resignedly, tapped the green button to engage the call and raised the device to his ear. “Ah, yes? Hello?”

“G? Oh, thank god you’re there.” Faith’s voice was raspy, panicked. “We’ve got a big problem.”

With the phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder, his hands were free to rub his eyes awake. Then he reached for his glasses, placed them on his nose.

“Faith, have you any idea what time it is here?” Giles sat up with a groan and another glance at the clock. 3:47. He grimaced. “I admit it’s pleasant to hear your voice, but I’ve had a remarkably trying day. This had better be an emergency.”

“Dude, I’m not the phone-home type. Didn’t call to chat. We’ve got a problem of _Buffy_ -sized proportions,” Faith clarified. “And she’s on her way here. I need your help.”

“Mm-hmm,” Giles replied slowly, rubbing his eyes under the lenses. “I rather expected she’d stay in L.A. a while before coming home, though I don’t see how that’s reason-”

“Not coming _home_ , G.” Faith interrupted. “Just coming _here._ And she sounded weird. Talkin’ about pink Barbie cars and fat bitches and...I don’t know, goin’ all poetic and shit. Giles, she was rhymin’ about killin’ Willow.”

“She _what_?” He pulled the glasses from his nose and began rubbing circles in the lenses with the corner of the bedsheet.

“Yeah, _the witch is a bitch I killed in a ditch_ ,” Faith recited. “Somethin’ like that.”

That caused him to falter in the polishing. _Killed?_ “Bloody hell.”

“So I tried to keep her talkin’, right?” Faith continued. “See if she’d clue me in about what the hell’s up. Giles, it was almost like she had...I don’t know...like she had no _Buffy_ left in her. I don’t know, man, something was _off_.”

Giles dropped his glasses on the table beside him, the monotony of lens polishing doing little to calm him. He rubbed his temples between his thumb and forefinger. Buffy was trained in self-control. She knew how fend off possession. But if Willow's recent phone call -- and now Faith's -- was a sign of Buffy struggling with sanity, this certainly didn't bode well.

_Think, Rupert, think._

On the other end of the phone, Faith took an audible breath. “So then she just hangs up, sayin’ she has something to take care of and that she’d see me soon. Then it was bye-bye, Buffy.”

“She hung up?”

“Big ol’ click, yep. So I called L.A.”

“Angel?”

“Angel’s office, Angel’s apartment, Angel’s cell...Fred’s house, Fred’s cell, Wes’s, Gunn’s, Harmony’s...Christ, I tried 'em all, Giles, and I got no one. _No one_.” Faith let the word hang in the air for a second or two. “I let that shit ring and ring, called each of them at least a half dozen times.”

A quick bit of a math put the time just before 10pm where Faith was. Even earlier on the west coast where Angel lived. Certainly not so late that _someone_ wouldn’t have answered Faith’s call.

“So finally Lorne picks up,” Faith continued. “But we have this real crappy connection, right? So I complain about it and he tells me he’s not gonna get a good signal where he’s hiding.”

“Hiding? Whatever for?”

“’S exactly what I said. I was like, hiding? Why are you hiding?’” Faith said. “And yeah, it turns out he’s below ground so _she_ can’t find him.”

“She who?”

“She, Buffy.”

“Wait...he’s hiding from Buffy?” Giles asked incredulously.

“Right?” Faith’s voice was panicked and rising, her words running together in her haste to get them out. “Apparently L.A.’s gone off the deep end. Like, mass hysteria, people going cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Fightin’ and killin’ each other, all over the place.” She took a breath and whispered, “Giles, Lorne said it was Buffy that started it. That it all began the minute Buffy walked into that fancy wolf and ram office.”

That rendered Giles speechless.

“Way Lorne tells it, Lil’ Miss Sunshine makes her grand entrance, yells something at Brood Boy, and then goes all crazy commando-like.” She paused. “Giles, Buffy dusted Angel. And Lorne says she did it without a second glance. Just staked him and turned away, like he was nothing to her.”

Giles gasped. He’d been aware of a rift between the two ex-lovers in the days after Sunnydale’s collapse...but that couldn’t have been enough for her to...to...could it?

“Lorne said he didn’t stick around to watch what happened next, but I guess it’s prob’ly a pretty good explanation for why no one else is pickin’ up their damn phones, huh?”

 _Oh, Buffy, what has happened, my darling, darling girl?_ Giles closed his eyes to the tears that threatened, floored with emotion and helplessness. Mentally willing his whole heart to his Slayer’s rescue.

But he had little time to dwell on the thought because Faith’s breath hitched loudly, she gagged, and then she fell into a violent coughing fit.

“Faith? Faith!” He shouted, but she didn’t answer, too busy gasping for breath between hacking convulsions. Giles started to become  increasingly worried. “Faith, are you all right? Are you there?”

Then the other end of the line went silent for the space of ten or twenty agonizingly long seconds before her voice returned to his ear.

“Yeah, yeah...I’m here, G. I’m here. I just...wow, that felt...that was so _weird_ ,” she stammered weakly. “Like something was-” She coughed a few times more, clearing her throat.

But she didn’t finish her sentence because the sound of a door reverberated over the phone line, opening and slamming in the background on Faith’s end. He heard the brunette slayer gasp loudly in surprise.

“Hiya, Faith,” came a woman’s voice, perky yet hollow in way that made Giles’ heart ache. “Whatcha doin’?”

 _Buffy!_ Giles gasped. “Faith! Faith, is that Buffy?”

“Why, yes, I do believe it _is_ my sister slayer, Giles,” Faith replied, and just like that, gone was the voice of a concerned friend, replaced with the hard, hollow acerbity of the unfeeling, unbending slayer. “Yo, B. Figured you’d be here soon. What’s shakin’?”

“Please, Faith,” Giles said into the phone. “I must speak with Buffy! Faith! Please put Buffy on!”

But she didn’t respond. He heard the rip of fabric, something heavy fall to the floor in the distant background, and then a few seconds later, Faith cried out, “Ow! Fuck!”

“Faith! Are you okay?” Giles pleaded. “What’s happened?”

Still no response. He could hear Buffy’s voice across the room, but she was much too far from the phone to make out her words.

“Faith! Faith! Please...can I talk to Buffy?” But it was still only the rhythm of Buffy’s speech patterns he could make out, barely audible over the din on that end of the phone line. “Hello? Hello!” Giles pleaded. “Faith! Buffy! Can you hear me?”

Faith finally replied to whatever Buffy had said, proof to Giles that she was, at the very least, still coherent. “Yeah, I heard somethin’ like that from a mutual friend of ours, B,” the brunette slayer snarked. “Guess that means you had some fun on Angel’s home turf, huh? Finally got enough of ol’ lover boy?”

Buffy made a quick reply of only a few words, to which Faith reacted immediately. “You what?!? What do you mean? You bitch! What’d you-”

A huge crash suddenly sounded.

“Fuck!” Faith cursed again.

Buffy laughed, an evil cackle that was painfully grating and tinny in Giles’ ears. The malevolence lacing her normally sweet valley girl lilt was foreign. Terrifying.

“Faith! Faith, are you alright?” Giles shouted desperately. “Faith, please! Are you okay?”

“I’ve got an idea,” he heard Buffy say, and this time her voice clear, as if she was speaking directly into the mouthpiece.

As if she was standing right next to -- or right over -- Faith.

And that definitely wasn’t a good thing, he realized, when the next sound he heard over the phone line was Faith’s deep, suffering grunt. The sound a body makes when all of its breath gets expelled instantaneously, right after getting punched or kicked in its solar plexus.

“Good lord, Faith!” Giles yelled in panic. “Faith, are you alright? Buffy, Faith, one of you! Please! What’s happening?”

With the exception of a handful of slaps he knew meant skin was impacting upon skin, he could only hear his heart pounding in his ears. He screamed, he yelled, he begged, all the while impotent with despair. “Faith! Faith! Buffy! Please!”

A loud crash -- the sound of Faith’s handset dropping -- nearly popped his eardrum, and he jerked the mobile away from his ear as if it had grown teeth.

“Faith, are you there?” He shouted. “Faith! Faith!”

And then the line went silent.

And his phone clicked as the extension disconnected.

But it still took him a good minute to stop screaming Faith’s name.

 


	8. Chapter Eight: Come, Let Me Clutch Thee

**Chapter Eight: Come, Let Me Clutch Thee**

 

 

“What? How? W-what the hell’s that supposed mean?” Xander sputtered.

“Oh, I think you heard me the first time,” smirked D’Hoffryn, though he repeated the revelation on his next breath. “Your vampire was-”

“He’s  _so_  not  _my_  vampire.” Xander’s interruption was immediate.

“The vampire,” the demon repeated, a bit louder and with an exasperated roll of his eyes, “was a rather... _integral_  part of your destiny. The last piece of the puzzle, if you will, had you allowed him to be. But you didn’t.” He shrugged in mock nonchalance, gesturing with a hand around the hut. “And so you ended up here instead.”

“Just a bit of 411, friend,” Xander rebutted. “Remember the whole throwdown with the First? Spike was the pasty dude with the bling, all front and center-like. I don’t know about you, but I’d say that made him a pretty big part of the whole destiny pyramid.”

“And just  _think_  of where you’d be now had you let him on the varsity pep squad a little earlier,” said D’Hoffryn, flashing wide jazz hands. Then he shrugged again and added, “But, I suppose...better late than never.” The demon pumped an enthusiastic fist into the air. “Go Team!”

“Alright,” the shaman warned. “He needs to find his own way. I think you’ve said enough.”

D’Hoffryn lowered his hand, nodding his acquiescence to the shaman without taking his eyes off Xander. The acerbic bite had abandoned his voice when he spoke again. “It’s not the stars that hold our destiny, Mr. Harris, but ourselves. And things can get a bit obscured when there’s prejudice blocking the view.  You’re being given a second chance. Do the rest of us a favor and give  _him_  the same as well. A bond between him and the Slayer is the only way-”

“Okay then,” the shaman interrupted, his hand raised to an astonished Xander’s shoulder, both to distract him as well as to guide him into the little kitchen. “If you are quite ready, Xander, we’ll begin the ritual.”

~ * ~ * ~

She’d spent a million millennia just a hair’s breadth away from the rest of the corporeal cosmos, but Layla had never quite grown accustomed to the constant ache of isolating hunger. That knife thrust into her stomach, those feelings of rejection and isolation, incapacitating emptiness.

Now that she'd finally crossed back over, it was jarring to realize just how  _full_  a body could feel as well. A mere five moons she’d been in this dimension -- hardly time to assuage the nagging famine that had burned holes in her belly for endless eons -- and she already found herself feeling simply tumescent. Swollen. Engorged with the gluttony of consumed despair and anguish and rage. Drunk with the anticipation of an impending reunion with Majnun, knowing she’d soon feel his strong arms wrap around her after so long without his presence. Would sup at the copious buffet of his perpetual, dimension-spanning devotion...

Oh, what they’d lost!

Father had been truly remiss in his curse, for it had extended far beyond the reach he'd intended and into unknown lives, untold futures. She was certain he’d not cast the curse in the hopes that the prison would bind her mate as well...bind him into an equal, separate oblivion in the process.

She'd waited ages for recourse, to reclaim the destiny she'd been denied. The one Father had poached by his ignorance, his insensitivity, his inability to understand the  _truest_  form of love.

 _Destined_  love.

She ground clenched fists into the sides of her thighs, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The scent of death around her, of the dried trees and the ashen grass, carried with it a sense of calm that drew the exasperation from her veins.

As wide her will, as boundless her ardor to begin the next phase of her existence, she didn’t dare appear impatient. Layla couldn’t risk the possibility of angering the Fates, not if there was to be any hope of retrieving the love she’d lost all those ages ago.

Perhaps a walk would do her good. A nice breath of fresh air to relax her, set her mind at ease, calm her nerves for what was to come.

For there was much left to do. Preparations to be made. Rituals to be performed. A champion to select...and to sacrifice.

The world would bend to her will very, very soon.

Until then, she’d feign patience.

~*~*~

“No time to waste!” The shaman said, rushing to the front door to retrieve his wooden staff. Then he nodded to D’Hoffryn, indicating his readiness, and as if on cue, the demon swung his arms upwards in a wide, dramatic arc, his robes whooshing out, waving through the air and driving a cylinder of power up from the hut’s packed dirt floor to encase them all.

Before Xander had a chance to ask what was happening, the shaman’s straw hut vanished, and he was standing in the middle of an empty cave, surrounded by layers of limestone, tiny conduits and tunnels much too small for a full grown man, the sound of subterranean water flowing, dripping out like a pulse several hundred feet away. The cave walls seemed to expand, contract, then expand again, vibrating the air into a thick soup as the remnants of power D’Hoffryn had expelled for the trip slowly dissipated.

Xander’s knees went wobbly, and he struggled to straighten his legs beneath him. Took a few breaths to acclimate himself.

Both the shaman and D’Hoffryn seemed unaffected, moving about the cave as if they’d only stepped between rooms in a house.

A light-colored basket, hand-woven and definitely very old, stood in the middle of the expanse of rock. D’Hoffryn walked over to it, reached into its belly and removed branches of all thicknesses and lengths, spreading them by handfuls in a wide berth to form the ritual’s protective circle. For a moment, Xander was struck by the oddity of Anya’s ex-boss engaged in manual labor, but then the demon looked up, noting Xander’s furrowed eyebrows, and muttered, “You could help, you know.”

Xander rolled his eye, wincing a bit when the shaman chuckled under his breath, but he reached out to accept the handful of branches D’Hoffryn extended and bent to help arrange sticks end to end until they’d circled back to the first.

“Hand me what you have left over, Xander,” the old man requested, stepping into the circle and seating himself, knobby knees bent to either side and feet tucked beneath him, arm extended in supplication. Xander passed him the last of the branches, and the shaman placed them on the ground in front of him, murmuring a quick incantation. The dry wood popped, sparked, and lit aflame.

A few sprigs of fern were placed on top of this, another few murmured words and the wave of the shaman’s hand conjuring a wisp of smoke that danced up, swirling around his bony fingers like a loving caress, filling the cave with a fragrance that reminded Xander of freshly baked spice cookies.

As if he’d read his mind, the shaman smiled, then started to chant, his tongue clicking strangely, adding a soothing, somewhat melodious accompaniment to the soft staccato of dripping water.

 _tra-yam-ba-kam ya-jaa-ma-he_  
su-gan-dhim pu-shti-var-dha-nam  
ur-vaa-ru-ka-mi-va ban-dha-naat  
mrit-yor-muk-sheeya maam-ri-taat

At long last, and after a second encore, the chant came to its end, the fern little more than dusty ash atop a pile of still-burning branches.

Satisfied with his work so far, the shaman removed a wooden box from the basket beside him, a roughly hewn, simple rectangle of timber, no bigger than Xander’s arm. Its surface was dry, variegated, knotted, and the old man handled it carefully, stroking his hand lovingly down each side and whispering -- too softly to make out his words -- like a parent to a newborn.

“If you’re ready, Xander,” the shaman finally said, looking up from his precious box and meeting the younger man’s eye, “it’s time for the Splenden ritual to begin.”

If Xander’s anxiety was evident, the old man made no acknowledgement. He simply held out his hand to the demon standing nearby, his lips uttering a soft request: “D’Hoffryn...my staff, please.”

Silent but for the shuffle of his robes against the dirt floor, the demon reached to hand the shaman the long walking stick and then retreated once again into the shadows.

“Okay, Xander. I’m going to invite the Splenden’s essence into you,” explained the shaman, gesturing with his hands in an invisible line from the top of the box to the center of Xander’s chest. When the younger man’s only response was a panicked look and a quick, deep inhalation of nervous breath, the old man smiled. “There’s no reason to be afraid. It won’t hurt, trust me.”

“Famous last words,” Xander breathed on a nervous chuckle.

“It won’t hurt,” repeated the shaman.

“Yeah, but it’s not even that, you know? You take a sword to the gut one time too many, a bit of pain ain’t gonna scare you off all that easily.” Xander shook his head. “It’s...I don’t know, man. I guess I’m just suddenly feelin’ a little….” He searched desperately for the right word, decided on another tack altogether. “See, a fella like me has a little bit of trouble with the whole  _trusting_  part, okay? I mean...alright, so I’ve got these two guys, right? One of them’s a demon I  _know_  has had a murder boner for my best girl. The other one? A total stranger, just took me on a Jedi mind fuck to who-knows-where, showed me all kinds of crazy, loopy shit, and then tells me the world’s comin’ to an end and I’m the newest Chosen One.” He shook his head again. “Given my track record, isn’t it a little more likely that you guys’re both lying and I’m about to...I don’t know...go get knocked up by an evil demon and then take a nosedive down the maw of hell?”

“Given your track record,” considered D’Hoffryn, stroking his banded beard. “I can see why you’d come to that conclusion.” His mouth turned up in a wicked fanged smile.

“See?” Xander asked the shaman, both arms gesturing wildly toward the mocking demon. When the old man simply stared back at him, Xander put his hands on his hips and took a breath. “Look, something big’s obviously about to go down, even  _I_  can feel it. And I’ve got nothing left to go back to, and a shit ton still left to lose. I get it. I’ll go down fighting, whether it’s for Anya or Buffy or Wills...and if there’s a possibility that...that I can-” He shrugged, took another deep breath. Ran his hand through his hair. “My heart’s completely in it. It  _really_   _is._  I’m just havin’ a hard time convincing my testicles.”

~*~*~

The scent of magic was heavy on the air, growing heavier still as Layla made her way through the halls to the front of the academic institution where she'd made her temporary living quarters. The scent of sandalwood...of sage and cloves and thyme and burnt calamus. Strong vapours undoubtedly left behind by a hundred dark spells, all of it stewing and soupy in the air.

Layla smiled and closed her eyes, breathing it in, enjoying the distantly familiar perfume of necromancy as it assaulted her senses. It was becoming more and more evident, day after day, that she’d made the right choice in letting the sorceress live. The right choice, indeed.

Granting the Red Witch a proper healing had been a mercy, one that would surely benefit Layla’s mission in the end, giving her options, opening doors to possibilities she would not have otherwise had access.

It was upon this thought that she strolled out of the lobby of the university’s main hall and into the world outside, creeping out under a sky black as night though it was but minutes past noon. She shut her eyes again, reached out with her senses. Besides the Red Witch, there were nary more than a few heartbeats of creatures to be felt for several miles.

_Just as it should be._

A few steps more, her hips swaying sensually, her lover’s name in her mind as she sashayed on the balls of her feet. At the fountain in the courtyard, she paused, bent to seat herself upon the cement structure, her skirts billowing out about her, mahogany hair dancing in the wind. She leaned sideways, reaching into the empty fountain reservoir to run her hands over the rough cement, lost in thought.

_Majnun…._

A roar erupted from the depths of the building she’d just vacated, interrupting her musings, turning the ends of her lips into yet another satisfied smile.

A wave of power roiled up and out of the building’s front doors, and smoke billowing in odiforous clouds from the open windows. The witch had been going at it, nonstop, for days...honing her powers, absorbing the darkness.

A powerful one, she was...nearly as powerful as Layla herself. It would be a pity to lay waste to such an impressive asset. Necessary, of course, but a pity nonetheless.

But she wondered...would it be the Red Witch or the Slayer?

Which of these revered champions would provide her with the abundance of torment, of anguish required to initiate the ritual properly? She needed enough to open the gates to the hell dimension to which he’d been sent, to free him from this bane of a curse under which he, too, had been imprisoned the moment her father had incarcerated her.

After all these aeons apart, to have him with her….

To see his dark eyes, feel his strong arms...

To pry him from the cold-

But Layla didn’t get the chance to complete her train of thought.

Her attention once was again stolen, only this time by the shaking of the earth and the sudden wave of nausea that slammed into the pit of her stomach, taking what little breath she required right out of her lungs and knocking her backwards into the fountain’s belly.

~*~*~

Xander’s gut felt like it was filled with squiggly wiggly creepy crawlies. He was terrified to the power of ten. More freaked out than he’d ever been before in his life.

And when he got scared and freaked out, he always asked himself,  _What would Buffy do?_

That one, at least, was an easy one. He closed his eye, his breath short, his legs shaking, and let the thought of his best friend calm him -- which it did, immeasurably -- and the answer was instantly clear.

Buffy would fight. And so he would fight.

So he steeled himself, nodded once, took a breath, and opened his eye. Looked at the shaman and nodded again.

He got a smile in return, the old man’s eyes bright with pride and approval as he began pounding his staff rhythmically on the ground, chanting in time to its percussion. This time, though, there were no distinct words or strange clicking sounds. Just the same, hypnotizing intonations, over and over...and over and over again.

 _Ho-ah. Ho-ah. Ho-ah. Ho-ah._  
Hey-ah. Hey-ah. Hey-ah. Hey-ah.  
Ho-ah. Ho-ah. Ho-ah. Ho-ah.  
Hey-ah. Hey-ah. Hey-ah. Hey-ah.

It didn’t really take long. A black, smoky substance rose up out of the wooden box and snaked itself around Xander’s feet, tickling him, winding under the hairs on his legs and beneath the hem of his shorts, crawling up inside of his boxers and over the crack of his ass, under his scrotum, up his abdomen. It was cold and hot and slimy and dry, tingling and chilling and burning him all at the same time. He struggled not to scream, not to jump out of the circle and run away.

And as the essence wound its way up his body and entered his nose, his ears, his mouth, he had just enough time to take a deep, thick breath before it crept down into his body, entering him from every open orifice, meshing itself with his soul.

For several seconds afterward, the earth shook around him and there was color everywhere. Rainbows of it, dancing off of every wall, down into the dirt, around every crevice of stone. Prisms of color creating halos around the shaman, D’Hoffryn...dancing in little pulses, like the heat of summer on black asphalt, as his being merged with that of a powerful other.

Then, just like that, his eyelids snapped shut of their own accord and the space within his mind simply exploded.

~ * ~ * ~

Layla crawled gracelessly out of the fountain, her temper flared and her senses on full alert.

That was no typical quake of the earth, of that she was certain.

Something wasn’t right.

Beyond the shadow of a doubt, something was very, very wrong.

But what? She’d done everything right. She’d located the prophesied Wasteland of the Sun, subdued a champion to cull forth the spirit of her beloved. _Two_ champions had she, in fact...one to spare, both of them dispatched on their separate paths of ruin...preparing for their roles, fattening like calves for the slaughter.

Layla sought, immediately found the Slayer’s presence, reached out to her over the bond she’d forged between them. Yes, there she was, miles away but nearing by the second, Layla could feel her...could taste Buffy’s rage building as the blonde made her way back, maiming and killing, building the anguish within, feeding it all back to Layla across the bond.

No, it wasn’t the Slayer.

So Layla reached out in the other direction, feeling for the thread binding her to the Red Witch, deep in the bowels of the college. Aye, she, too, was safe, building the magicks and feeding her rage, growing the anger and hatred within her as spell after powerful spell was cast. Channeling, reveling in these strongest of black magicks, indulging and enraptured within the dark, dank chamber into which Layla had abolished her.

Assured that both of her champions were deep in her safekeeping, Layla knew she needn’t fear the damnation of her long-awaited mission, the return of her beloved. The knowledge brought her a modicum of comfort...but if not them, who? What? From where did the threat originate that caused the earth to tremor? That made her feel as if the dimension was changing, transitioning, reforming around her?

As if in answer, the ground shook again, the return of the accompanying nausea making her belly drop to the ground. One hand on her midsection, the other to her now-aching head, Layla braced herself against the fountain wall upon which she was perched. Gasped when a sharp sound at her back told her the structure was succumbing to the shifting of plates below the surface.

She scrambled to her feet mere seconds before the whole thing cracked in two, crumbling to its dry demise like a stack of children’s blocks.

So Layla stood there, no recourse other than simply waiting for the shaking to cease, surveying the damage it was creating as she counted nearly two hundred breaths for it to finally halt, for silence to reign again.

And then she turned on her heel, returned to the basement...to the dark corners where the Red Witch’s power was burgeoning, growing, souring.

There were spells to cast, shadows to read, and answers to find.

Something was very wrong, and she was in no mood to stand by as it laid waste to her destiny.

~*~*~*~

A sharp slap across his face made the colors swirl behind his eyelids, twisting and swooping and rocking from side to side like some kind of psychedelic breakdance. They wrapped him in warmth, a cozy, comforting, half-drugged feeling. One he was hesitant to abandon.

It made his brain twirl, his heart sing, his body feel as if it was floating...

“Xander? Xander, are you with me?” The shaman’s deep baritone resounded, and Xander felt a firm hand grasping the apex of his right shoulder.

And the very second of contact, a firework show commenced behind Xander’s eyelids, hundreds of tiny sparks, glimpses of people and places, bursts of sounds with which he was unfamiliar.

A quick flash of a beautiful woman with hair the color of daffodils.

The flare of green leaves, yellow and orange foliage.

The  chirp of birds, the purr of a cat. Children laughing in the distance.

A flicker, just for a second or two, of long ribbons and gowns of soft velvet. Of skirts flowing with rich magentas, emeralds, and sapphires.

The acrid smell of burning flash. Lava, stinking like death and flowing over the earth, scorching the world and the space behind his eye.

“Mmmph,” Xander mumbled, a rough shove at the hand, pushing it off his shoulder. The intense feeling of incineration and the image of an ignited universe...all of it just ceased immediately as his mind returned once again to the swirling comfort of colors.

“Xander?” the shaman prompted again in a small voice. “Are you with me yet?”

“Mmm, yeah, man. I’m here. I’m here. Just...just gimme a minute. It’s all...comfy like a crayon box in here.” His voice sounded oddly rich to his ears, his words silly. The thought of both made him giggle.

“Look at me, Xander. Open your eye.” The shaman waited a beat, slapped Xander’s cheek softly once more when the young man failed to respond.

Another flash passed in Xander’s mind, this one much too fast to even make sense of what he’d seen.

“Xander, please,” the old man repeated firmly. “There’s little time. She knows something is wrong.”

 _She? She who?_  Xander wondered, his eyeballs dancing and floating, up and over countless rainbows.

“Xander, wake up  _now_ ,” the shaman directed. “Look at me. There’s time to rest later. Layla’s begun to sense a shift in the cosmos. We must hurry.”

It was the name did it --  _Layla_  -- the name that awakened a part of Xander’s consciousness that had once sunk in slumber below the colors and images and dancing and floating. His one eye shot open, instantly aware, scanning his surroundings.

“O-0-0-0-0-0-0kay, that was kind of...interesting,” Xander muttered, his head still swimming as he stood slowly, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck from side to side. “And I’m...I feel different. Stronger. Lighter. More...I don’t know...coordinated? If you know what I mean...kinda like I could breakdance with a glass of water and a stack of books on my head. All funky funkmeister. Izzat what was supposed to happen?”

The shaman stepped back, his eyes going out of focus, roving over Xander’s body as the young man stretched, brushed the dust from the cave off his ass, his hips, his legs. After several long seconds, the old man nodded. “The Splenden is within you. Your auras are one. So you say you feel stronger, more coordinated?”

“Yeah, I-” Xander rolled his neck a few more times from side to side. Slapped his chest with his palm a few times. “And kinda...I don’t know...fuller? Like there’s more than just  _me_  inside here, but it’s still all  _me._  Does that even make sense?”

From the shadows, D’Hoffryn emerged, chuckling as he clapped his hands in front of his chest. “It does, indeed.” Then he turned to the shaman and said, approvingly, “Looks like you did it, old friend. I honestly didn’t think you would. Well done, my good man, well done.”

The shaman smiled, slightly embarrassed by the compliment, and nodded before he turned back to address Xander. “In time, you will learn how to access your new powers, how to call them up and use them as they’re meant to be used. For now, though, we must hurry.” He turned to the blue demon, invited him with a wave of his hands into the circle. “D’Hoffryn? Please, it’s time for you to begin.”

“Wait, what? You’re not gonna teach me how to use this thing?” Xander’s voice was panicked. “What kind of training is this? Not even a set of guidelines, an FAQ or two?”

“It’s not quite that cut and dry, Xander,” came the holy man’s hesitant reply. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know how you’ll draw from the demon’s essence. I’m afraid it’s up to you to learn that part.”

“Yeah?” Xander asked. “And, uh, just how’m I supposed to do that?”

The shaman smiled. “You take the next step on your journey. I promise, the lessons will come on the way.”

“Perhaps you’ll allow me to repeat the question,” Xander snarked. “How do I  _do_  that?”

“The journey starts,” came the reply, only this time, it was from D’Hoffryn, “with a wish.”

“Right. So just like that? I say the words,” Xander asked, “and everything goes back to the way it should be ’cause I’m wishing it that way? Badda bing, badda boom?”

D’Hoffryn chuckled. “No, you dolt. You don’t just get a prize for making a wish. You can’t just place the bid and everything goes back to the way it’s supposed to be. Who do you think I am, Bob Barker?”

“ _D’Hoffryn_ ,” warned the shaman in a low voice, then he turned to Xander. “He’s sort of...well, retilling the land for you, so to speak. Giving you a fresh patch of dirt so you can start over, replant the seeds that  _should’ve_  been cultivated originally. You’ll get what you deserve once you’ve proven that you deserve it.”

“And lemme guess, it all starts with me saying ‘I wish whatever you want me to wish,’ right?” Xander asked.

D’Hoffryn clapped loudly and laughed. “Well, that was certainly a lot easier than I thought it would be,” acknowledged the demon, his eyes wide and his eyebrows raised as he glanced at the shaman expectantly.

The old man nodded and smiled, raised his eyebrows and muttered the words “told you so” under his breath to the demon.

Xander didn’t get a chance to consider what was happening or even think about what he’d done. D’Hoffryn simply stood up straight, rearranged his robes, and stated in a voice that was regal, clear, and just a  _bit_  too smug for Xander’s liking:

“Wish granted.”

And just like that, the world simply blinked away.

 

**END OF PART ONE**


	9. Chapter Nine: In the Name of Truth, Are Ye Fantastical

Good sir, why do you start and seem to fear  
Things that do sound so fair? I' th' name of truth,  
Are ye fantastical, or that indeed  
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner  
You greet with present grace and great prediction  
Of noble having and of royal hope,  
That he seems rapt withal: to me you speak not.  
If you can look into the seeds of time,  
And say which grain will grow and which will not,  
Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear  
Your favours nor your hate.

~ from **MacBeth**  
(Banquo, Act I, Scene iii, Lines 53-63)  
by William Shakespeare

 

________________________________________________

 

 

**PART TWO**

 

 

**Chapter Nine: In the Name of Truth, Are Ye Fantastical**

 

“I thought you said this skank was tough,” Spike smirked, pinning the hellgod’s arms from behind as Buffy pummeled her from the front.

Giles rolled his eyes. For god’s sake, the demon had arrogance enough for them all.

But she obviously was tougher than they’d thought, for Glory’s struggling overwhelmed the vampire, and with minimal wiggling and bucking, she broke free. Glory kicked Buffy in the face, and then grabbed Spike’s arm, flipping him over her shoulder and into the wall. He barely had time to look up before she grabbed him again, headbutted him, then threw the vampire once more, this time across the examination table, where he landed in a heap against the opposite wall and didn’t get back up, instead crumpling, unconscious, to the floor.

“He wakes up,” the hellgod warned Buffy, “tell your boyfriend to watch his mouth.”

She had her back to him, but Giles nearly laughed on the spot, imagining the look he was certain was plastered over his Slayer’s face.

“He is _not_ ,” Buffy sneered, just as Giles expected, “my boyfriend.” And she punctuated the sentiment with an uppercut and then a right hook to Glory’s face.

As Buffy continued to hammer her opponent with her fists, Willow and Tara stood nearby, clutching small leather bags and quietly chanting. Giles knew they were gearing up for a defensive spell, but decided an extra measure wouldn’t hurt, attempting to take aim around Buffy’s body with his crossbow.

Alas, Buffy continued to hinder his view of Glory as she punched and kicked at the hellgod. The frustrated sigh he emitted must have been enough to attract his Slayer’s attention. She glanced back at Rupert and nodded, acknowledging his plan of attack. Buffy kicked her foot at Glory’s face.

The goddess grabbed the shoe before it hit its mark. She smirked and said, “Hey, those are really nice shoes.”

Buffy used the pause to her advantage, pivoting off the foot in Glory’s clutches and pushing her slim body into a backflip, kicking Glory in the face on her way down.

“Giles, now!” Buffy shouted, diving out of the way to offer him a clear shot.

He took it without hesitation, but as it turned out, his crossbow was worthless and the arrow bounced off of Glory’s stomach, leaving the curly blonde smirking and little else.

The hellgod half-rolled her eyes in Rupert’s direction, leaning back casually with a sneer as she retorted, “Oh, please, like that’s going to-”

She was interrupted by Xander...or, more accurately, by the swing of the crowbar he clutched, the blow of which was directed to the back of the goddess’s head. Like Giles’, Xander’s attempt to disarm her didn’t affect her, and Rupert watched, helpless, as Glory screamed “Hey!” and shoved the iron bar against Xander’s throat. She looked him in the eye and warned, “Watch the hair.”

Then she pitched the young man away, straight into Giles. Xander came careening like a swinging wrecking ball into the Englishman’s solar plexus, both men collapsing in a heap against a nearby x-ray display.

Tara and Willow, their eyes wide with panic, continued chanting, gathering their magicks together and waiting for the opportunity to launch their conjured counterattack.

“Time to start the dying,” crooned Glory, extending the crowbar in front of her chest and waving it mockingly, a warning to the other occupants of the small examination room. “Let’s start with the whelp.” And then she pitched the crowbar, long end first, toward the younger Summers.

As the tool went flying, javelin-style, Buffy reacted immediately, leaping with the grace inherent to the Slayer, directly in front of her younger sister. She intercepted the heavy weapon before its tip hit its mark, the pointed embedding itself into Buffy’s shoulder. She fell to the ground with a grunt of pain.

“Buffy!” screamed Dawn.

“Get back!” came the Slayer’s response, and she yanked the crowbar out of her body.

“Nice catch. Is that the best you little crap gnats could muster?” Glory leered, her eyes scanning the room like the predator she was. “’Cause I gotta tell you… _so_ not impressed.”

Willow and Tara suddenly sprang into action, throwing handfuls of glittery dust over Glory’s head and over either side of the goddess’s body. The powdery potion showered down upon the blonde’s curls, sticking to her face and her shoulders, coating her decolletage, her forearms, her dress. Glory glared down at the debris in utter disgust, furious. “Look at what you did to my dress, you little-”

“ _Discede!”_ shouted Willow, invoking the _Be Gone!_ spell in its Latin form, slamming the palms of her hands together in a loud clap.

Giles didn’t so much as blink; Glory disappeared in a flash, and the red-haired witch crumpled to the ground, a shower of glitter following in her wake.

“Willow!” Tara lamented, racing to her lover’s prone body.

In the same breath, Giles felt the weight of Xander’s body lift from his own fallen form...wait, no, it didn’t simply lift...it bloody well _disappeared_ into thin air, the whole softly muscled mass of it dematerializing just like Glory’s had. _Poof!_

And then Xander suddenly reappeared, only this time in the very space the hellgod’s silk-clad figure had just vacated. He hardly looked worse for the wear, other than the look of surprise, confusion, and...well, frank irritation.

 _Not to borrow a colloquialism from Spike,_ he thought to himself, _but what the bloody hell…?_

In any other situation, it would have been cause for further worry, a question needing an immediate answer. But at this point, in the right here and right now, Xander seemed to be fine and there was no time to dwell on his disappearing act. Rupert knew the others might have borne injuries that were far, far worse, and there’s be time to deal with whatever just happened to Xander later.

And so the Watcher hurried across the room to assess the damage, his concern for Xander disappearing as quickly as the boy had only seconds before.

~*~*~*~*~

 _Not even a word of warning,_ Xander thought to himself, slapping the cold, blue tile floor upon which he now sat.  _Not a single fucking word...just ‘wish granted’ and sayanora, Xander._

He rubbed a bandaged hand over his face, the glittery potion that stuck to his skin scraping his chin and falling down into the arm of his jacket. _Wait, bandaged hand? Jacket?_ He patted his chest as if to verify he was still there, grimaced when he realized his head was pounding...which only made him think of one, irritating thing: damn if he didn’t want to kick himself.

He should’ve known better. Should’ve remembered that you don’t say _that_ word, that W-dash-dash-dash word...and certainly never in the presence of a vengeance demon. Hadn’t he been around Anya long enough to learn at least _that_?

He shook his head...which only served to exacerbate the pounding drums within it. _Aspirin_ , he thought to himself. _That’s what I need._ A handful of aspirin and a nice cold glass of...

He’d opened his eyes and was scanning his surroundings, and as he took that first good look around, the thought of aspirin wafted away faster than it started. Just got lost on air that was cold and sterile and laced with the scent of medications and disinfectants...with magick and…and...

His heart skipped a beat. And then another.

Holy hell, he was in the hospital. With...with the Scoobies.

In Sunnydale.

It had _worked_. He’d...merciful Zeus, he’d traveled back through time!

“It worked!” he shrieked, then grabbed at his aching head again, settling back on the floor.

“Yep, it worked,” Willow agreed, misunderstanding the reason for his outburst. “But I won’t be trying that one again soon.”

Blood dripped from one of her nostrils as Giles and Tara bent to help her stand. The redhead swiped at her nose with the back of her hand.

On the other side of the room, Buffy sat sprawled on the floor beside her sister. “Are you alright?” she asked Dawn. “Did she hurt you?

“Why do _you_ care?” the younger Summers sniped.

“Because I _love_ you,” replied Buffy. “You’re my sister.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

As the girls bickered, Xander closed his eyes and smiled, enjoying the sounds around him, the nearness of the people his heart knew as family. The feeling of _home_.

It surprised him how easily it came to him, how he could recall exactly what was going on in the Scooby world at exactly this space in time. With no effort whatsoever, Xander knew where he was and, more importantly, _when_ he was.

 _The Council just left and told us about Glory. It’s Buffy’s birthday...which means we’ve also only known about Dawn being the Key for a day or two,_ Xander remembered. _Dawnie just ran away...and she found Ben here at the hospital. He went all Glory-like, though no one remembers it right now, and Willow just mojo-ed her the hell outta Dodge._

It was weird, the more he reached for, the more he remembered...and all of it with perfect clarity, as if he’d lived it only hours ago instead of months and months and months in his past. He reached back to the day before, and the week before that, a tidal wave of memories walloping him like an NFL defensive lineman, playing out like one of those old-fashioned Kinetoscopes, only on super-fast-forward speed.

 _Flip..._ sitting in the rafters of the Magic Box and hearing how he, “the boy,” had clocked time.

 _Flip..._ Olaf the Troll ransacking the Bronze while Spike suggested he sample the babies at the hospital.

 _Flip..._ talking Buffy into talking Riley out of leaving... _flip..._ standing up to Tara’s dad as they formally adopted their newest Scooby member... _flip_...Dracula and his-

Maybe he’d skip remembering that one.

Every memory kicked off another, a long line of flashback dominos, each with emotions that ran richly through his blood, leaving him feeling full and sated.

Then he remembered he was sitting, ankle deep in magical glitter, eyes closed as he grinned like a moronic fool, right smack in the middle of the hospital.

Xander took a deep breath, braced himself against the flood of visions, and forced control into his thoughts. The images slowed to a trickle and then stopped.

He opened his eyes, worried he’d find the gang staring at him, wondering what was happening. As far as he knew, he’d been sitting there, at least for several minutes if not longer, wading through voices and pretty pictures in his head. And probably looking like a blank lunatic the entire time.

But when he looked up, Buffy’s attention was still on Dawn, Giles’ and Tara’s still on Willow. Spike was sitting against the back wall, looking dazed.

No one had even noticed. Not one of them. And only seconds had passed instead of minutes or hours.

Yeah, this was gonna be weird.

Xander’s sense of déjà vu hit max as, for the second time in so many years, he watched Buffy take Dawn’s hand in one of hers, flattening the palm of her own hand against her bleeding shoulder, then pressing it against the cut on her sister’s palm.

“Summers’ blood,” Buffy explained. “Just like mine. It doesn’t matter how you got here or where you came from. You are my _sister_. There’s no way you could annoy me as much if you weren’t.”

As the two sisters embraced again, Xander had to turn away, not only to give them a few moments of tender privacy, but also because he, too, was overcome with emotion.

Because his heart was overflowing with gratitude. With wonder. With…

Wait. Where was Anya?

“Anya,” he blubbered, the words coming out a little garbled and in a voice that sounded deeper, fuller in his head. “Where’s Anya?”

“Sh-she’s back at the h-house,” Tara stammered, looking back at Xander. Suddenly her eyes went wide with shock. “Xander! Uh, y-your aura...it’s-”

“Wait! Ben!” Dawn interrupted with a shout, and Tara forgot her train of thought as she swung around to acknowledge the young girl.

When Xander’s gaze followed, landing on Dawn’s confusion expression, he knew instantly...could remember that feeling of struggling for an idea that was just a few inches beyond your awareness. In this case, the Glory-Ben conundrum. “He-he was here. He was trying to help me, but then he-”

“It’s okay, Dawnie. We’ll see Ben soon,” replied Xander, smirking. He knew he had to come up with a way to help them defeat Glory soon, but for now, they wouldn’t remember even if he tried to explain. “I’d say you can pretty much bank on him popping up as far as Glory’s concerned.”

Dawn simply stared back at him, puzzled. Tara flashed him an odd look, too.

“Yeah, Dawnie, it’s okay,” Buffy agreed, though she sent her own confused glance in Xander’s direction. “We’ll thank him next time we see him. Let’s go home.” As she helped her younger sister up, she cast another dubious look in Xander’s direction, her eyebrows furrowed with concern and her head tilted slightly. “You doin’ okay, Xand? Didja hit your head? I think we could all use some rest.”

The statement wasn’t supposed to be funny, but it struck him as such...quite hilarious, in fact. He let out a huge guffaw, which turned into a second and third one, and before long, had transformed into hysterical laughter.

 _Am I doing okay?_ He thought between deep belly laughs. _Fuck yes, I’m doing okay. In fact, I’m doing just fine. Juuuuuust fine, thankyouverymuch._

“Um, Xander,” said Giles, likely trying to distract him from what he perceived as a fit of hysterics. He placed a hand at the small of Xander’s back. “Come, I’ll help you.”

The moment of contact, when the older Brit’s hand made connection with Xander’s body, the room started flickering wildly. On and off, on and off. Sounds and images and smells and experiences. Colors and bright lights, then total darkness. Quick, loud snippets of a male’s voice, then total silence. The mellow aroma of Scotch whiskey. The recycled air of the sterile hospital.

Xander closed his eyes -- he had the presence of mind to marvel, _Hey, two eyes!_ \-- and fought against the nausea by gritting his teeth hard, and by focusing his pupils just _slightly_ harder than that, creating little dots of sharp light behind his eyelids.

And realized, purely by accident, that he could control the flicker of information plaguing him, and that he could concentrate on whichever sensory feed he damn well pleased.

_Well, that’s kinda cool._

He focused...and the voice became clear.

_What the hell is wrong with him? Has the boy gone mad?_

The thought came through, broadcast in high fidelity audio...but it wasn’t the inner Xander voice he was used to hearing all the time. It was Giles’voice, playing right across Xander’s mind, as if the Englishman had leaned over and mumbled the words in the younger man’s ear.

 _Good lord,_ Giles’ voice continued. _We nearly didn’t make it. She got damn close. Any closer and she’d have-_

In utter shock, Xander jumped, jerking away from the Watcher in an attempt to steal a glance at Giles’ face. Confirmed that, no, he definitely wasn’t moving his mouth.

The sudden, unexpected movement startled the older man and forced his hand away from Xander’s back.

And the Giles soundtrack silenced.

To test the water, Xander extended his hand, reaching out slowly and touching Giles on the arm. The voice started back up, that smooth British lilt in Xander’s mind.

_What in the world is he-_

And then Giles’ voice stopped the moment Xander lifted his hand from the Brit’s forearm.

Started again at his next touch.

 _Is he daft?_ Giles thought.

Stopped when he lifted it again.

 _Ah_ , s _o that’s how it works_. Xander thought in his own voice. _Lesson the first_. And he pictured the shaman in his head, nodding thanks to the old man’s memory.

Then, with a reassuring smile at Giles, and on feet that were unusually confident and rather un-Xander-ly in grace, he made his way out of the exam room, out into Sunnydale, and home to Anya.

~*~*~*~

At the back of the exam room, Spike awoke, roused from his spot on the floor by the clap of Red’s hands. He peered up just in time to catch a glimpse of Glory disappearing into thin air...and Xander blinking out of sight, then reappearing where the permed skank had just been.

_What the bloody hell?_

He rubbed his eyes, shook a small bit of glass from the palm of his hand as he sniffed the air. His enhanced sense of smell caught the hint of magick lingering on the air: the perfume of Red’s and Glinda’s joint powers, the remnants of Glory’s enchantment, an odd layer of... _something_ he couldn’t quite make sense of. All of these smells floating around in the disinfectant-laced air pervading the hospital.

“What did you do to her?” Buffy asked Red, peering back over her shoulder as she held Dawn’s head to her chest.

Spike’s dead heart expanded, a breath he didn’t even need stopping up his throat. She really was a breathtaking sight to behold, all warrior princess with a feather-soft heart.

“Teleportation spell,” replied Red. “Still working out the kinks.”

“Where’d you send her?”

“Don’t know. That’s one of the kinks.”

“It worked!” shrieked Xander in a voice that seemed more resonant to Spike’s sensitive ears. He made no remark, watching as the boy grabbed his head with a wince.

The vampire could sense Xander’s confusion and pain, and he reeked of department store cologne and laundry detergent and sweat, but Spike discerned that unfamiliar _something_ surrounding him. It was intense and powerful, almost…preternatural covering Xander like a second skin, and it definitely hadn’t been there several minutes before.

“Yep, it worked,” Willow said. “But I won’t be trying that one again soon.” She allowed Glinda and the Watcher lift her, wiping her nose, swaying a bit as they settled her on her feet.

The scent of her blood roused his demon, and Spike’s belly gurgled. He turned to Buffy to distract himself.

The Slayer and Dawn began to argue, drawing the image of his own two sisters, Abigail and Emmaline, into his head. An old, faded photograph of a memory...of nights spent fireside, he reading aloud from Dickens -- they did so love the _Pickwick Papers_ \-- his words interspersed with his sisters’ voices, quietly bickering over favorite characters and favorite quotes, working their needlepoints atop the tufted pink loveseat...

He’d ignored their memory for decades, having buried his human life beneath the six feet of soil into which he, himself, had been buried when turned. In the past several months, though, he was reminded of them often. Dawnie was so much like his sweet Emmie...they shared the same stature, the same long fingers, had the same shades of chestnut dancing over the same heart-shaped face. And _bloody hell,_ but Buffy reminded of his younger sister Abbie, with her fiery temper and all that passion in such a runt of a package.

He shook his head hard to clear the thoughts, ashamed of his namby pamby brooding, especially with the Scoobies all around. Instead, he studied the Slayer as she flattened a bloody palm against a cut on Little Bit’s hand. Smelled the two sisters’ blood -- so similar, yet so vastly different -- mingling, filling the air with the sweetness that was the Summers women.

“Summers’ blood,” Buffy said, as if she’d read his thoughts. “Just like mine. It doesn’t matter how you got here or where you came from. You are my _sister_. There’s no way you could annoy me as much if you weren’t.”

And as the two sisters embraced again, Spike’s empty chest warmed and swelled, touched by the open show of emotion.

Then the Whelp asked after his bird, and Spike got to his feet, figuring he’d had enough Scooby simperin’ for one evening. He was brushing himself off and ignoring the bane of conversation going on around him, when something Xander said caught his attention...some barmy bullshit about Glory and Ben popping up, sputtering about like a ninny. Then, for several moments, Xander sat with his eyes closed, the oddly preternatural aura Spike had noted around him intensifying, expanding.

Whatever it was that was causing him to smell different, he was suffused with it. Spike didn’t think anyone else noticed, didn’t feel the need to bring it up, but then Glinda called the Whelp out on it, saying something about the boy’s aura before the Bit’s interruption distracted her.

 _Int’restin’,_ he thought to himself. Perhaps he’d stick around a little longer, see how this little hen night played out.

“Um, Xander,” he heard the Watcher mutter, “come, I’ll help you.”

The boy allowed Giles to lead him for a step or two, then he jumped backward, his scent flaring wildly for several seconds….wilder still as he touched and then removed, touched and then removed his hand from Giles’ arm.

 _Is the Whelp off his bleedin’ rocker?_ Spike wondered, watching as Xander finally smiled to reassure Giles, then made his way out of the examination room.

“Come on,” said Buffy, helping Dawn up and nodding her head at Spike. “Hey, thanks. Good fight,” she told him before turning to grab her sister’s hand and lead her out. “I have to get you back home. Mom’s freaking out.”

“Oh, is she mad about the whole fire thing?” Dawn asked.

Spike reminded himself to ask about that one. B n’ E at the Magic Box, stealin’ the Watcher’s diaries, beggin’ him for his best vamp tales, settin’ fires at home...the Nibblet was turnin’ into a right cheeky monkey, straight up his alley.

He loved her for it.

“I think you sorta have a get-out-of-jail-free card on account of big love and trauma,” said the Slayer.

“Really? Okay. Good.” After a few steps forward, Dawn spoke again. “You think she’d raise my allowance?”

“Don’t push it,” came Buffy’s reply to her sister.

Spike chuckled, and Buffy turned, a tiny smile on her face even as she replied, “Shut up, Spike.” The words were more out of habit than anything, and lacked their normal bite. Better yet, she even pretended not to notice when he grabbed a couple of blood bags off a nurse’s cart in the hallway and stuffed them into the pocket of his duster.

 _Maybe there’s hope_ , he thought to himself, then he flounced the wings of his duster behind him and walked out into the midnight air.


	10. Chapter Ten: That Indeed Which Outwardly Ye Show

**Chapter Ten: That Indeed Which Outwardly Ye Show**

 

 

Xander raced home, rounding the intersection of State Street and Maple Court at an almost horizontal sprint and climbing up the cement stairs in front of his building three at a time. He threw wide the door to the lobby, tore through the hallway, and then stood, lungs heaving and heart nearly breaking his chest, at the front door to his apartment.

He’d dreamt of this moment. Boy howdy, had he dreamt of it. Every day. Every minute of every day. Every fucking second of every minute of every-

_Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod._

_I’m standing outside my apartment door and Anya is alive on the other side._

_Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod._

He nearly started hyperventilating, and even as his mind raced, his pulse skyrocketing, the world seemed to be set on slow motion. It was as if it took hours to pull his keyring from his pocket, hours more to find the right key to insert into the lock hole. He felt the resistance of every tiny pin the key passed, the shift of metal as it rotated, the thunderous clap of the lock releasing. Xander swung the door open so hard it bounced against the rubber stopper behind it, suddenly snapping it and the rest of the world back into real time.

And holy shit...there she was.

Emerging from the bedroom, ever so slowly, she leaned against the door frame with a hand perched provocatively on her hip. Gazed at him with bedroom eyes, beckoning him with the swell of her breasts over a deep breath.

In all of her resplendent glory, clad in nothing more than a skimpy gold bikini, her short hair held back with a gold scarf, its tail hanging over her right shoulder like a braid a la Princess Leia.

Costume night. He  _loved_  costume night.

His cock immediately stood at attention, tenting the front of his khaki pants, as she stood staring at him, tugging self-consciously at a bit of elastic pulled over a jutted hipbone, chewing on her lip.

Who’d been dead to him only an hour before.

Xander was suddenly overcome, falling to his knees with eyes full of moisture. “Ahn,” he breathed, clutching his heart. It almost hurt to use it again; it had been empty for so long.

“Xander!” shrieked a panicked Anya, and she rushed to him and dropped to her own knees, placed a soft hand upon his cheek as she stared up at him with a worried expression. “My god, are you okay, sweetie?”

 _He better not be having a heart attack_ , came her sweet voice in his head, her words a tad too precise, even in her thoughts.  _At least not before I’ve gotten out of this getup and had my orgasm. Gold lamé is murder on your nipples._

He smiled and closed his eyes, enjoying the silk of her voice in his mind, finding her frankness enchanting...infinitely more so than he ever remembered it being.

The realization was jarring. He’d taken her for granted, for entirely too long, shamelessly so, and he had much to atone for.

He would, though.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he told her with a gentle smile. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, Xander,” she gushed, one hand covering her heart. “You could have been…oh, god, you scared me! For a moment there...the way you were acting….” Anya’s worried eyes suddenly went wistful. “It was like this one time, back in...oh, god, what would it have been? 1223? 1224? Anyways, I was cursing a shepherd in the Kaskov valleys who’d been unfaithful to his wife. You should’ve heard her, going on and on and on about how she wished all of his sheep would-”

He let her ramble on and stared, adoring the sparkle in her eyes, the arch of her eyebrows, the way her mouth moved around her words, the tilt of her chin. He’d be hard-pressed to recall the topic of conversation, far too mesmerized was he by the movements of her body to pay attention to what she was saying. She enchanted him with her beauty.

“Are you listening to me, you big marshmallow?” She poked him in the chest, and he heard,  _I wonder if his penis is still hard?_

“More than you know,” Xander replied with a chuckle, answering both questions at once, even if she didn’t realize it. “And I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock with wanting you, Ahn. I can’t even think straight. You’re...you take my breath away.”

She’d always been a sucker for dirty talk, and she threw a palm over her mouth, a sob escaping from behind her fingers as she launched herself into his arms.

It occurred to Xander a millisecond too late that he should have been more careful. That he should have warned her. It was just...well, he’d gotten so caught up in  _seeing_  her that he’d neglected to think about anything else, least of all to ask her to play it slow with the touchy-touchy.

He went weak with an intense vision the very  _instant_  her skin touched his, and the sensory overload stemming from Anya’s full body slam hit him like a damn 747. It was nothing like the gently running Giles commentary he’d gotten earlier. Instead, this attack halted every message shooting over his nervous system, as if his brain was calling all the fighters back to home base to prepare for deep impact. Xander tumbled from his knees to the floor, with just enough presence of mind to roll in midair so he’d somewhat cushion Anya’s fall.

He never felt his own landing.

It was the coppery tang of blood that hit him first, followed by the realization that he was no longer in his apartment but outside, stuck in some panoramic pastoral painting, surrounded by an absolute stillness that told him this-was-a-really-really- _really_ -long-time-ago.

And there was blood  _everywhere_. Dripping from the rough-shod fence posts, pooled in puddles at his feet, turning a trough of drinking water the color of port wine. Bits and pieces of human body parts littered the grass...viscera and brains, fingers, arms, legs.

He tried and found he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Oddly so, in the same instant, an awareness in the back of his mind told him he was viewing the tableau as it played out in Anya’s memory, fresh on her mind.

The aftermath of one of her vengeance commissions.

A lone sheep strolled out from behind a stone building,  _baa_ -ing serenely as it grazed, keeping at a safe distance from Xander-Anya. The animal was covered in blood -- though from the looks of it, none of it its own -- and its pelt was knotted, twisted, and dripping in rivulets of bright scarlet, dried patches of mahogany and brown.

He had but a second to really study the animal before a terrified whine sent it scuttering away, drawing Xander’s...er, Anya’s attention in an aboutface.

A man -- in the loosest sense of the word, for he wasn’t sure one could call what was left of this poor creature  _a_   _man_  -- lay a few dozen feet away. His arms and legs had been brutally ripped from his torso, and he had one visible ear lobe hanging by a scrap of skin from the side of his skull, the top of which had been scalped and was bleeding profusely, pieces of his brain spilling to the earth.

An enormous...well, Xander didn’t know  _what_  kind of demon it was, but it looked like a cross between a sheep and a...Tyrannosaurus Rex, he supposed. The beast was curled over the man’s body, two heavily muscled front legs holding the human’s torso still as its fang-filled mouth gnashed and gnarled over intestines spilling from his open stomach.

Xander couldn’t believe the man was still alive, but he was whimpering in pain and fear. It’s possible he was attempting to beg for mercy as well, though judging by the odd sounds he was making and the sheer volume of blood spilling from between his shredded lips, Xander could tell that the man’s tongue was gone.

The demon bent closer, stretching downward to sample the meat of the left leg stump, then moving slightly to the right to bite down on the crotch of the man’s ripped pants. The guy screamed in agony, his whole body tensing, and the movement sent blood spurting from the gaping wounds where each of his four limbs had once been.

With a powerful shake from side to side, the demon pulled away, a chunk of flesh still gripped in its strong jaw as it whipped its head like a dog with a toy. What was once in the demon’s mouth went flying, landing with a bounce and a splash of gore on the ground beside him.

Now, Xander had watched enough horror films to hazard a guess...had witnessed enough of the Sheep-o-Suarus’ attack to understand...but it still took a moment for it to really register, bloodied and cleaved as it was. It took some time for his brain to really identify it...to fully grasp...

It was the man’s penis.

An honest to god, ripped from a live man’s body, chunk of oh-my-holy-fuck-that’s-a penis.

His inner Xander awareness wrestled with abject horror, but he felt Anya’s chest fill with warmth as she took a deep breath of air, stretched a proud smile over her face.

She was satisfied with a job well done.

And she was feeling out-and-out  _righteous_  about it.

He’d never experienced her like this. Had never allowed himself to consider the possibility that she’d ever been this ruthless, this brutal, this  _savage_. And the thought overwhelmed him to the point he couldn’t take it anymore.

It also turned him on like a motherfucker.

It was all too much. He fought against the images, pushing hard and with every ounce of will, with every last bit of mental acuity he could muster, and finally broke through it with a terrified scream.

~*~*~*~

Anya launched herself at him, overcome with emotion and a wave of desire at the thought of Xander’s nicely shaped penis going hard for her, but the second she touched him, he went limp. And not the type of limp that adversely affected their smooshing. The kind that affected all of him, that razed him to the floor like a big, Xander-sized wet noodle, and that dragged her down on top of him.

The impact still stole her breath, and then he didn’t respond when she poked him on the shoulder. “Xander?” Anya said, pushing even harder against his chest. “Xander, sweetie, are you okay?”

And then, out of nowhere, his eyelids flew open and he shrieked, the long, shrill scream of a madman, placing both hands on Anya’s shoulders, his legs scrambling for purchase on the floor beneath him, and shoved.

“No!” Xander screamed with eyes blank and wide from terror. “No penis!”

Anya went flying, landing on the side of her hip as the momentum behind Xander’s thrust propelled her up and off of his prostrate body. She’d have knocked her head on the floor as well had she not also braced her palms on the floor behind her...as it was, she’d have rug burns on her palms for weeks.

“Holy fuck! N-n-not the penis!” Xander continued to yell.

She understood immediately what he was saying.

He didn’t want to share his penis with her.

He didn’t want to have sex with her anymore.

Because he didn’t think she was attractive.

He didn’t love her.

The thought broke her heart, drew the emotion out through her throat in a guttural sob, one she tried to hold behind a hand though she knew she was close to losing it.

So before she did, Anya sprang to her feet, tripping over Xander’s limp foot in her haste to escape. She grabbed her coat from the back of the sofa and swung it around her shoulders to cover her bikini-clad body, palmed her handbag from the side table, and raced to the front door.

Once she’d slipped both shoes on, she ran out into the darkness, heading home to nurse her broken heart.

~*~*~*~

Technically, Xander was awake before Anya was out the door and in her car, but he wasn’t aware enough to realize what had happened until she was well on her way down the next block.

He was torn.

On the one hand, he’d waited so long to have her back in his arms. And he was horny as hell for reasons he wasn’t quite ready to admit. Plus, the thought of hurting her in his first hour back made his heart heavy with regret. It all made him desperate to chase after her, to try to explain everything.

He nearly did, too.

But all of those feelings passed by him in a second, and then he blinked. And this and just about every time he blinked from that point forward, he was back on that sheep farm with some poor sod’s bloody fucking dick flying at him, seeing it wiggle in mid air,  _flop-flop-flopping_  its way with the blood spurting everywhere, straight from the demon’s mouth to the ground beside him.

And remembered how proud she’d been to have caused it. Remembered how much that made him want her.

It had been a long, fucked up Doctor Who-style kind of day, filled with vision quests and rituals and time travel and mindfucks and too much emotion.

He needed a drink.

So instead of chasing after her, he rose from the floor and grabbed the half-empty bottle of Jack from the bar in the corner. Carried it to his bedroom and settled in for a night of heavy absorption.

The liquor lasted him about an hour.

He was asleep -- and dreamlessly so, thank Zeus -- less than five minutes after that.

~*~*~*~

Spike couldn’t sleep.

He’d left the hospital in high spirits, chuffed with post-Glory excitement and craving a good fight. The Slayer, however, had tapped out of patrol to spend the night with Joyce and little sis.

Spike was much too amped to settle for a stagnant night with Harmony, so he went with the old fallback -- Willy’s -- where he settled instead for a fifth of whiskey and a few hands of poker.

A few hours later, when he finally stumbled back to his crypt, he was sauced as hell and no less abuzz with excitement, the remainder of a second bottle of whiskey in one arm and a black and white kitten under the other.

He hadn’t meant to keep the animal -- he’d originally wondered, in fact, if the chip would permit him a tasty treat on the stroll home -- but then the wee thing had peered up at him with the clearest, most emerald green eyes, and they’d instantly reminded him of Buffy’s. Then ol’ Spike had gone weak with want for the Slayer...and ended up with a new soddin’ pet in the process.

He’d no sooner settled the kitten in front of two bowls -- one with a spoonful of Wheatabix, the other  water -- when Harmony slunk out of the bedroom to announce she was still awake. She began cooing over the tabby, rubbing all over Spike, and when he’d shoved her off of both of them, she’d gone running into the sewers with a promise it was the last he’d ever see of her.

As if he’d give a shit that she’d left him. Stupid bint. More like a blessing.

By that time, there was nothing but Springer reruns on the telly, and Spike was sober and wide awake before the end of the first episode. Since he’d already watched the latest Passions tape and didn’t have patience enough for a book just then, he threw a blanket on the floor for the kitten, blew out the candles and headed downstairs for a shower and a wank.

He undressed quickly, turned on the water and got under the shower head, pressing his forehead against the smooth wall of rock as the cold pelted his ass and shoulders like tiny knives. Harm had been after him for weeks to install a hot water heater, saying it helped the conditioner penetrate the dead hair follicles or some rubbish like that. He had yet to come across one he could nick easily, though, plus he didn’t possess the bodily temperature sensitivity to truly care anyway.

Spike washed his hair quickly, then lathered his body and face with a bar of his favorite sandalwood soap. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head into the stream of water. It was, as usual, Buffy’s face that flashed in the dark behind his eyelids.

Always Buffy’s face that’d been there, and long before his dreams had made him aware of it.

Buffy’s face he kept picturing as his hand trailed down the muscles of his chest, traveling over the patch of curls to grasp the base of his prick. Thighs wide, he sucked in a breath, stroking his shaft slowly up and down with his hand, bracing himself with the other.

He’d catch little snippets of her in his mind. The way she smiled that private smile earlier tonight. The way her pants coated those pert ass cheeks like dark chocolate. The bounce of her breasts, the sparkle in her eye, the scent of her excitement.

He got lost in the fantasy and tightened his grip around his cock, pumping harder, harder still from tip to groin, imagining it was  _she_  he was pounding into... _she_  he was buried in, balls deep.

 _Spike_ , she’d say,  _I want you so bad. Fuck me, Spike, fuck me._

And then she’d lick her lips, lower her eyes seductively, look at him over her shoulder. Angle her ass  _just so_ in front of his cock, invite him into that tight, hot heaven between her thighs...

He came hard, spilling himself on the rocks with a roar.

 _Get a grip, mate,_  he admonished his reflection a few minutes later as he toweled off.  _All she did was thank you for a good fight and turn her back when you filched the blood._

But the hope was still there, like crumbs on the floor.

It was that blasted craving for Buffy, the one that consumed him all day and all night, that made him feel like he was drowning and really living, all at once. He knew better. Knew she’d never think of him like that.

Because the Slayer saw him as a monster, not a man.

Spike sighed. The craving had to go.

A few hours’ kip, that’s what he needed. Later this morning, he’d take the sewers to the Magic Box, hit up the demon girl and see if she knew of a spell or a potion that would help curb this shit.

He needed to get the bint out of his head, once and for all.

~*~*~*~

When Xander awoke the next morning, it was to the tune of a raging hangover, a chock-full bladder, and the guilt of a dead Anya weighing him down like elephant shit on his chest.

Every day for months now, he’d borne that guilt. The responsibility for not being there to save Anya, for leaving her to die with Dweeb Boy as her only companion.

Like he did every other morning, Xander rolled to his side, rubbed his good eye into the pillow as if to clear the guilt like gooey sleep from his tear duct. Pulled the quilt Aunt Martha had sent him for his 18th birthday up over his chest, burrowing under it with the hopes that, if he closed his eyes and laid  _really_  still, he’d fall back asleep and would-

_Wait. The quilt from Aunt Martha? But that’s back in the crater in-_

_What the-?_

A second later, it all came rushing back...the demon essence...the wish...time travel...Anya. And it came to him with perfect clarity; he knew  _exactly_  what he needed to do next.

Xander jumped out of bed and rushed to the bathroom to take care of his business, then tossed back a few ibuprofen as he gathered what meager food scraps he could find in the kitchen for breakfast. Ten minutes later, he was back in bed with a bowl of stale cereal, a half-eaten container of week-old lo mein, the dregs of a flat two-liter of Coke, and his portable phone.

And he was making his first call.

Though it went straight to voicemail, he knew full well Anya was sitting there, listening as he recorded his message. “Hey, Ahn, it’s me,” he said. “I know you’re there. Listen, I’m really, really sorry about last night. I...uh, I’ll be at the store in a few hours. In fact, I’m gonna call the rest of the gang to meet me there, too. I owe you an explanation, and I’m gonna give it to all of you at the same time. Just...please hear me out. Let me explain. I love you, Ahn.”

And he hung up.

Then, one by one, he called the rest of them...Buffy, Giles, Willow and Tara. His fingers dialed the numbers by rote, their voices filling his head and his heart with joy like nothing else ever could. He asked them to meet him at the Magic Box for an emergency Scooby meeting, and since Buffy had said to give her two hours, that’s the time he told the others as well.

He “forgot” to invite Spike...okay, maybe it was less forgot and a bit more deliberate. He just wasn’t quite ready to cross that bridge yet.

Baby steps.

He didn’t dwell on what he’d say to them...in fact, he wasn’t sure what or even  _if_  they’d believe any of it. Parts of the story were pretty far-fetched even for  _him_  to believe, and he’d lived through it firsthand. But if what he’d been told was true...if all of this wasn’t some huge plot to overturn the universe...and if Layla actually  _was_  the threat they’d said she was, well, then he needed to get a move on.

He had a soul full of demon, a head full of memories, and an apocalypse to stop.

It was time to tell his family a little story. 


	11. Chapter Eleven: You Greet with Present Grace and Great Prediction

** Chapter Eleven: You Greet with Present Grace and Great Prediction **

Xander was showered, dressed and strolling into the Magic Box with a box of donuts in his fist before the second hour was up. The sun was shining, there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and business was light, as was expected at these kinds of places in the morning on an active Hellmouth.

Anya glanced up as the bell over the door announced his arrival, clearly anxious to greet her first customer of the day, and for a split second, she saw it was him and smiled. His heart warmed, rejoicing, and he held tight to the thrill of it when, moments later, her smile turned to a wince and her eyes filled with pain. Then she looked back down at the books in front of her.

Xander struggled against the urge to touch her, reminding himself that he needed to keep his distance before the bulk of the secret was revealed. He was still overcome with the joy of having her right there. Alive and within reach.

He approached the register carefully.

“Ahn,” he began. She didn’t look up to acknowledge him. “Ahn, did you get my message?”

“Oh, I got your message, Xander,” she replied icily, intent on the paperwork instead of her conversation with him. “I got it loud and clear.” And then she glanced up at him with eyes like daggers. “Come to rub it in a little bit more, have you?”

“No, I came to explain. And to apologize,” he replied. “Anya, I’m sorry.”

She rolled her eyes before averting her eyes again.

From the hundreds of quarrels in his time by her side, Xander knew which words paved the smoothest path to reconciliation. Simply and directly, he said, “It was my fault completely.”

She looked up and they locked gazes.

“I know I hurt you last night,” he continued. “And I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t mean to, and I kinda need you to try and give me the benefit of the doubt, even though I know you think I don’t deserve it. And let’s be honest, I _don’t_ deserve it,” he affirmed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But what happened last night...Ahn, it was _not_ because of _you_. I’ve just got a lot of shit swimming around in my head, and I’m tryin’ to figure out how to deal with it.”

Anya studied him, tilting her head and staring into his eyes with a puzzled look in hers. “Xander, what...what are you-”

“Xander?” Giles interrupted, calling from the tiny office behind the counter. “Is that you?”

Though Xander continued to hold Anya’s gaze for several long seconds, she didn’t seem inclined to finish her question, so he quietly assured her, "This isn't done," and then turned to greet the ex-librarian emerging through the doorway. In a mock British accent, he said, “Yes, ’tis I, my good man. And a fine morning to you. Pip pip!”

“Uh, yes, good morning. And how are we feeling today?”

“Oh, I’ve had better days,” replied Xander in his own voice, stretching his neck from right to left, glancing back at Anya as he did so. “But I’m okay. How ’bout yourself?”

“I’m quite well, Xander, thank you,” Giles answered. “Um, I wonder if I could speak with you for a moment before the others get here? Anya, you as well.”

“Sure,” replied Xander.

Though Anya’s gaze trailed uncertainly from the watcher to Xander and back to the watcher, she nodded.

“It’s...well, it’s about Willow,” Giles began slowly, and Xander knew he was gauging the reactions of his two younger companions. “I’m concerned she may be attempting spells that are a bit too advanced for a practitioner of her level.” The watcher gave Anya a beseeching look. “I’m sure _you_ would agree, Anya, that trying to access powers outside the realm of your abilities...well, it can have major repercussions.”

“Oh, absolutely,” agreed Anya, nodding vehemently. “I can’t tell you how many times I meted out a curse on some wannabe overachiever who cast a spell that was over his head. I tell ya, it’s always about the big, happy ending, never about the quality of the foreplay.”

Xander snickered.

“Well it is! There was this one warlock,” she remembered. “He was doing some kind of fertility spell on his mistress...something about an heir apparent he hadn’t gotten from his brood-mare of a wife, or some nonsense like that. Must’ve been, oh, fifteenth century, give or take a few,” She twisted her face in thought and then flipped her wrists with a _who knows_ shrug. “Anyways, he just threw out the first words he could think of, summoned the goddess Tawaret without a care in the world. And what does he do? Instead of knocking up his girlfriend, the guy ends up turning his _wife_ \-- who’s, like 200 miles away -- into a fire-breathing hippopotamus. Do you even _know_ what a vengeful hippopotamus sounds like?” She sent a deliberate shiver through her body. “I’d like to see _you_ tryto get a proper wish out of _that_.” Anya rolled her eyes again and fell silent.

“Yes, um, well...” stammered Giles as Xander let out a loud guffaw. “As I was saying, I’m a bit worried that Willow is attempting to manipulate magicks she’s not quite ready to handle. Her powers are getting stronger, but I fear she doesn’t quite know what to do with them.”

“You’re right, Giles.” Xander nodded, and the look of surprise on the watcher’s face told him the Englishman wasn’t expecting such frank agreement. “What? Surely you’ve noticed that something _always_ goes mondo bizarro every time she casts a spell, right?” When Giles’ eyebrows lifted in agreement, Xander continued. “So, yeah, you’re right, Giles. Will _can’t_ handle it, and she needs to learn how to soon. Trust me, the way she’s going, it’s gonna get much, much worse before it gets better.”

The watcher’s expression veered from surprise into stark disbelief.

“What?” Xander asked again.

“Well, I suppose I rather expected you to stick up for her instead,” came the reply. “You typically do.”

“But I _am_ sticking up for her, Giles, in the only way I know how to after-” he stopped and sighed. “Look, you’re Buffy’s watcher, right?”

“As of fairly recently, yes,” the shopkeeper replied wryly.

“Oh, c’mon, you’ve always been here to guide her, whether you’re doing it for the Council or not. She’s got the strength and the slayer powers, Giles, but it’s _you_ who’s taught her how to use them. And at this point in time, she’ll be depending on you even more than she ever has before.” He stopped before he’d revealed too much, and let the thought sink into the watcher’s head. “In many ways, Willow is just as strong as Buffy, if not stronger. She needs that same kind of teacher.”

The guilt that flashed in Giles’ eyes told Xander he’d already come to this same conclusion. So why hadn’t Giles acted on these suspicions earlier, in their other timeline? At the very least, he could have mentioned his concerns to the Scoobies. So much suffering could have been avoided...

But then Xander considered where he was in this new timeline, thought about the sequence of events that was soon to occur, and any smidge of disappointment with Giles virtually disappeared.

Joyce’s death. Tara’s mind wipe. The Knights of Byzantium. Glory’s tower. Buffy’s jump.

It was enough to drive even the most focused warrior to distraction, and he couldn’t fault Giles for not acting on Will’s behalf. They’d all seen it happen, and none but Tara had ever done anything about it...and he knew even _her_ attempts were ultimately to no avail.

So he promised himself things would change this time around and doled out reassurances instead.

“Giles, it isn’t your fault,” Xander said. “You’ve got your hands full with Buffy, and she’s only gonna need you more and more as time goes on. You can’t expect to be responsible for Willow, too. I think it’s time we call Althanea and nip this in the bud. We need someone to teach her how to use her powers, and it needs to happen before she goes all Dark Willow again.”

“Again?” Anya’s voice piped up curiously.

“Althanea?” echoed Giles in an equally curious tone.

The bell over the front door jingled, and Willow and Tara strode in, hand in hand, saving Xander from any necessary backtracking. They couldn’t rightly discuss a witch’s magical demise in front of the witch in question, and Giles reluctantly retreated to the cash register as Anya greeted customers. Xander knew it wouldn’t be the end of _that_ conversation, either.

“But that’s when you have to close the circle or else you end up looking like this,” Tara was saying, then she stuck out her tongue and crossed her eyes at her girlfriend. They both dissolved into a fit of giggles, though Willow’s grew noticeably weaker until she grimaced and stopped laughing altogether, massaging her forehead under the pads of two fingers and a thumb.

“Aw, honey,” cooed Tara, placing her hand on the small of Willow’s back, “why don’t you go over by Xander and sit in the comfy chair. I’ll go get you some tea.”

It struck Xander as he watched them, as it had hundreds of times after they’d lost Tara in that other timeline, just how right the two witches were together.

Willow simply glowed, her green eyes alight with a sparkle he’d missed for more than a year, and though she looked exhausted and was clearly in pain, her happiness shone through from within. After everything she’d lost, all the suffering she’d had to endure, watching her right now, like this...it was _thrilling_.

And Tara. Sweet Tara. With her gentle doe eyes, hair the color of honey, and the familiar, tranquil presence that both complimented Willow and grounded them all. She drew a gentle hand down Willow’s cheek, the small smiles on either face speaking of a private tenderness that made his breath catch.

Then the two girls separated, Tara into the back office, Willow to the table, and Xander held his arms out, relishing the way his best friend fell into them as he drew her gently against his chest.

“How’s my girl doin’?” he mumbled, kissing the top of her head.

“Oh, I’d be a lot better if the marching band up here would take a breather,” she replied, tapping gently on her temple as she sighed into his embrace. Then she pulled away, lowered herself into the chair, and gave him a weak, grateful smile as he traced circles into her shoulders with his thumbs.

A minute later, Tara emerged from Giles’ office carrying a tray laden with proper British tea accoutrements. She set it on the table near Willow, waving her hand so the steam from the silver kettle danced merrily about her fingertips. As Xander watched her ministrations, he couldn’t help himself.

“Tara,” he called to her in a voice awash with emotion. “Has anyone ever told you you’re an angel?” He smiled when she looked up at him in surprise. “I’ve really, really missed you.”

Willow, too, glanced up then, a confused look on her own tilted face. “Um, Xander? You just saw her last night.”

He acknowledged Willow with a nod, but was afraid his voice would belie the tears threatening his throat, so he just stood there smiling at Tara instead of responding. The honey-haired witch studied him for several long seconds, and then her face relaxed and she smiled shyly as if she understood.

And it occurred to him that maybe she did.

“Thank you, Xander,” Tara said quietly, and then she lowered her head and went about preparing a mug of tea for Willow, who was still glancing between her best friend and her girlfriend with a look of utter puzzlement on her face.

Buffy picked that moment to push roughly into the Magic Box, Dawn following behind her like a hurricane set on destruction.

“I did _not_!” Buffy yelled. “And anyways, what difference does it make to _me_ what you get for an allowance?”

“Oh, come on, you did _so_ tell Mom!” Dawn shouted back her.

“No, I didn’t, Dawn. What I _did_ was tell _you_ not to ask formore money. But did you listen? _Nooooo_.”

“Oh, shut up.” Dawn sighed dramatically. “Buffy, I don’t get even a penny for a month! A whole month! What am I gonna tell Janice? We were supposed to go to the mall after school tomorrow!”

“Well, then it’s a good thing after all,” replied Buffy simply. “You don’t need to be running around with Janice where Glory can find you. You’re better off at home or here with us.”

“Buffy!” The word came out on an extended whine that rather mimicked the sound of nails on a chalkboard.

Xander chuckled. The Dawn _he_ knew was so much more somber, prone to extended periods of silence that echoed with mourning, with concern for a deeply suffering sister and the loss of a man he knew she’d loved like a brother. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed _this_ version of Dawn.

Buffy rolled her eyes and sniffed the air. “Giles, you got anything besides tea in here? Is it too early to order pizza? I’m _starving_.”

“Pizza’s coming in a bit, Buffster, I ordered it on the way here,” Xander said, shaking himself out of the sad reverie. He lifted a hand from Willow’s neck and grabbed a box of donuts. “Might I offer you a tasty ring of fried dough in the meantime?”

“Thanks, Xan, don’t mind if I do.” She grabbed a jelly filled and took a giant bite, thick red syrup bursting out of either end, dribbling to the floor and down the corners of her mouth. “Oops,” she giggled around a full mouth, wiping at her cheek with her pinky and licking it with a smack.

Dawn rolled her eyes. “You’re such a pig. How’re you so hungry when you just ate an hour ago?”

Buffy swallowed loudly. “Can I help it if my strapping slayer metabolism gives me an empty Buffy belly? I require sustenance.” She pouted for effect, though her face quickly relaxed and she allowed her bag to fall from her shoulder as she stooped to wipe the floor with a napkin. Then she dropped into a chair and took another bite of donut, peering curiously at Willow.

“How you doin’, Wills?” she asked around a mouthful of the sticky confectionary.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” the redhead replied weakly. “Nothing a few solid weeks of sleep won’t cure.”

“Aw, poor Willow,” Buffy lamented, running the hand that wasn’t covered in jelly over the witch’s hairline. “You know, that was some pretty big league sorcery you had goin’ there last night.”

“Actually, Willow, I wanted to talk to you about that,” added Giles. “That was an incredibly...dangerous spell for an adept at your level.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” the redhead agreed reluctantly, shrugging. “But then...I figure if you don’t a few stupid things when you’re young, you won’t have anything funny to remember when you’re old, right?” She smiled up at Giles with eyes big as plates, then winced when the movement precipitated more pain.

Giles looked doubtful. “Yes, well…”

The ding of the cash register distracted Giles’ train of thought, and the whole group turned to watch Anya finish her transaction at the cash register. “We appreciate your patronage,” the ex-demon said, nodding at the elderly customer she’d just served and flashing a bright smile. “Please, come back and spend more money soon.”

Giles’ sigh was audible and Willow rolled her eyes, but the rest of the gang shared a laugh. Anya didn’t notice any of them, though, too busy closing the till and calculating the profits on her approach to the research table. Her eyes were bright with the joy of capitalism as she seated herself.

Finally, Giles called them to attention, announcing, “If you’re all quite ready…”

There was a noisy shuffling of chairs around the table, and the watcher waited for them to quiet before clearing his throat to speak again.

“Right,” he finally said, “so I think we’re all here now. Xander, what was it you wanted to talk to us about?”

 ~*~*~*~

The sewers were wet and dank, the manholes and drain covers protecting the underground tunnels from the cooler, drier air filtering through Sunnydale’s trees above. Though Spike had stopped breathing back at his crypt, the taste of the sewers sat thick on his tongue, and he was happy to reach his final turn, where he could escape the reek of rancid wastewater. He stepped through the door to the Magic Box’s basement.

After a short search, he stuffed a few feathers and a handful of burba weed into his duster pocket -- the feathers for the tabby, the burba for himself -- and then climbed soundlessly to the top of the stairs, his Doc Martens leaving wet footprints on the cement behind him. Spike’s hand was on the doorknob, braced to throw it open, when he realized Anya wasn’t alone.

He sniffed, and could sense several signatures, knowing instantly that a majority of the Scoobies were seated at the research table only yards away from the basement door. He heard the pitter patter of several heartbeats...some of them the unfamiliar pulse of customers come to browse, others thumping out in cadences unique to the Watcher and the Scoobies...the slower rhythm of the Slayer, the speedier staccato of Lil’ Bit’s.

It was Buffy’s voice, though, and her request for food that wafted down the stairwell first, and Spike chuckled under his breath when Dawn called her sister a pig.

_ ‘S a bloody miracle that girl has enough energy to patrol, _ he thought to himself, picturing how thin the Slayer had grown, what with worryin’ over the hell bitch, and takin’ care of a hellmouth, her sis and their mum. It was good she was feeling peckish, girl needed some meat on her bones to fill out all those delicious curves just a bit. She needed to be strong if she had any hopes of defeating Glory.

And no, the irony of wishing the Slayer strong wasn’t lost on him.

Spike settled himself against the wall, picking at his black nail polish in the dim light as he eavesdropped. Though he’d never admit it to anyone, the familiarity of the Scoobies’ voices enveloped him like a warm blanket. He found himself smiling at the sounds. Laughing at the demon bird’s blunt dismissal of her customers, agreeing with the watcher’s concern, feeling a mite sympathetic for Red’s pain. He knew a thing or two about headaches, after all, and the trouble they could cause, just as he knew she’d have to learn to be responsible for her magicks one of these days, else the witch was gonna do something she’d regret.

Then again, he wouldn’t be adverse to another twirl on the bint’s _Will Be Done_ carousel, now that he thought about it. He’d had time to sort through those memories from a much more...open-minded perspective, and there were a number of things he’d do differently. Least of all, make his intentions known with more than harmless flirting and a few stolen snogs...

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

_ What are you lookin’ at? _ he’d asked her, the taste of her arousal filling the air and his nostrils.

_ The man I love _ , she’d said coyly.

And he’d looked into her eyes, those seas of sparkling emeralds, as she’d leaned forward and touched her lips to his. She’d smelled of passion, felt like fire sheathed in the most delicate of feather-soft skin.

And she’d tasted like sunshine.

His daydream was cut short when, as per the usual Scooby meeting agenda, he heard the Watcher call the group to attention, his announcement followed closely by the loud shuffling of chairs. A few minutes later, Rupes cleared his throat and asked the Whelp why he’d called the meeting in the first place.

Now, Spike had lived on the Hellmouth just long enough to grow accustomed to all the little paranormal oddities it rendered. He’d seen a wider variety of demons, sensed a heavier amalgam of magical energy in the last few years of Sunnydale residence than he’d experienced in more than a century travelling the world with Drusilla -- bless her stark raving, cold, dead heart. So he should have been prepared for anything. Should have known that anything could happen, and at any time.

Which made the shock Xander’s voice evoked all that more poignant, because the boy’s response to the Watcher’s question was the last thing Spike ever expected.

 ~*~*~*~

Xander took a deep breath and looked around the table, unaware of the extra set of ears catching his story as he glanced from Giles to Anya, from Buffy to Willow, Tara to Dawn.

He’d missed them all, so very much, these people who had comprised every breath, every thought of his entire adult life. This was his family. Sure, the second one he’d known, but the first that came to mind with the word. The primary substance of _him_. The people with whom he identified. Their presence alone was a comfort to him, as if he was swimming in a pool of familiarity and getting all pruney with a nice, long soak.

This was _home_.

And so he took a deep breath and began.

“Have any of you ever heard the story of Layla and Majnun?” 


	12. Chapter Twelve: Speak Then to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to give credit where credit's due, I re-used to a bit of Dru's "Fool for Love" dialogue in the flashback section of this chapter.

**Chapter Twelve: Speak Then to Me**

 

 

 

 

_Rome, 1937_

The lace of her frock was almost translucent as Drusilla spun around and around in the candlelight, dancing with her dolly to music only she could hear. His dark goddess was happy as a clam, a picture of serenity now that her demon was sated, and Spike was right chuffed to just sit back, smoke his cigar, and observe.

She was a study in opposites, his Dru. The face of purity, of gentle innocence, masking the malevolence of a bloodthirsty killer, a brutal monster. Perfectly soft, pale skin stretched over the most delicate of bone structure, but a body hard as steel, as deceptively strong as it was strikingly female. The voice of the sweetest songbird, melodious and mesmerizing even in the absence of her thrall, uttering words laced with unadulterated evil and menace.

She was the bringer of his death, and the benefactor of his eternal salvation.

He supposed it was his sire’s constant contradictions that stoked his fires, that kept him traipsing after her like a love-sick slave. He knew, clear as day, that he was love’s bitch, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it. And he’d never leave her, not for the rest of his godforsaken unlife, no matter which fool dared to tell him otherwise. She was his destiny, and Spike would follow her to the ends of the earth.

They’d gotten the Master’s summons -- Ol’ Bat Face had fancied the opening of a Hellmouth in bloody Nowheresville, California -- but they'd ignored it, opting instead for a tour of the Italian coastline and a sampling of the best wines and the best winemakers each region afforded. They’d been in Rome for two days, and the city had been especially good to them, offering up its best in sanguinary delicacies with little to no effort required on their parts.

Point of fact, just last evening, he and Dru had been having themselves an amble down gaslit Via Portuense, and they’d quite literally stumbled upon a posh little wedding...one of a wee little brown-haired bride and a brawny chap who couldn't have been more than 18. So in love were these two, and deliciously so, that he and Dru made a hearty feast of that bride and her bridegroom, as well as the half dozen guests who’d joined the pair to witness their nuptials.

And then they’d awoken at dusk to find the previous night’s banquet this afternoon’s front page news.

Now, were he on his own, he’d cut a swath through the middle of the bloody square and shout his exploits to the ends of the soddin’ earth. Spike took the greatest of pride in the name he’d made for himself, and figured he probably always would.

But he wasn’t on his own. Not since Angelus had soul-scampered and Darla had returned to her sire. Now it was Spike and his ebony idol...and he her one n’ only caretaker. He had to mind his P’s and Q’s, so he'd deemed it best to keep to the safety of their living quarters for a spell.

Which, in this case, meant retiring to the gilded opulence of the penthouse suite at the Grand Hotel Flora...after draining the ponce who'd rented it, of course.

Nobody ever said a vamp had to live and dine like a bleedin’ pauper, after all.

With his belly full, Spike reclined and watched Dru twirl around and around on her bare feet, her eyes locked on a gaggle of fat cherubs painted into the ceiling fresco in the center of the grand room.

“What d’ you see, my ripe, wicked plum?" he asked her. "The paintin’ talkin’ to ya?”

“Oh, they’re not talking much to Mummy, Spoike,” she shook her head and held her china doll out in front of her chest. “It’s Miss Edith the pixies wish to speak with tonight.”

Drusilla pulled the doll back to her breast and pirouetted away, each of her steps seductive, her hips hypnotizing Spike with promises of ecstasy and ravishment still to come.

“And what’re the little pixies tellin’ the dolly, pet?” he asked on a contented sigh. Spike tilted his head to get a better view of her swaying hips, palming the growing bulge at the front of his trousers.

“She says they sing songs about _you_ , my lovely,” was Dru’s melodious, _isn't-it-obvious_ reply.

“She does, does she?”

“Mm-hmm.”

And for a few moments, he watched as she stopped dancing, staring up at the ceiling and nodding every few seconds, covering a demented giggle with the back of her hand. Then she placed Miss Edith on the settee behind her, spent a moment smoothing the doll’s dress and patting her silken curls, and began speaking to the toy in a low, animated voice. Her face was drawn into an expression of deepest concentration.

After many minutes, Dru finally stood up straight, smoothed her own skirt with hands that were sure and steady, and looked up to tell the ceiling in an equally sure and steady voice, “Miss Edith says it’s time.”

She stood still for another moment, and then said,“Okay, yes. I will.”

When Drusilla turned to address her childe, her eyes were clear, bright. Far more lucid than Spike had ever seen them before.

“Spoike,” she said, and instead of the wandering, slightly unhinged gaze that typically accompanied a conversation with his dark goddess, Dru looked at him with an unwavering, focused stare. Slinked toward him to extend her hand and cup his cheek in her palm.

 _Bloody hell,_ he thought to himself, eyes wide as he struggled to interpret the sight before him. _She’s cookin’ on all four burners._ In the face of her seemed sanity, he gasped back an unnecessary lungful of air.

“Dru?” he asked uncertainly. “You-you with me, pet?”

“Mummy’s with you, my Spoike,” she assured him, and the strength in her voice overwhelmed him with joy.

Spike stretched his lips into a smile and relaxed against her hand as she caressed his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb.

“Don’t you worry, poppet,” she said. “You’ll be mine for a while longer.”

“Be yours forever, pet,” he replied automatically. And with a slightly more awed voice, said, “You’re a sight, y’ know that? ’S good t’ see you like this.”

“Oh, my sweet William, you’ve still so much left to see ahead of you,” she told him. “My boy has quite the destiny. A _big_ one.” She giggled, and he smiled. “Have you ever met a princess?”

“Only you, Dru,” he crooned. “You’re _my_ dark princess.”

Drusilla placed her hand back on his cheek with a sympathetic expression on her face. “But not for always, my darling. For one day, the sun will drive the darkness away, and you'll belong with your two sisters instead.”

 _My two sisters?_ he thought, wondering if perhaps she _wasn’t_ quite ’round the twist just yet.“Uh, Dru, my sisters were dead n’ buried before I met you, luv,” Spike reminded her.

“Not _those_ sisters, you silly, silly boy.” She tittered, then held up two fingers, nails sharpened to a point, blood red and tipped in white. _“_ Two _other_ sisters. Ones of sun and light.”

Then Drusilla raised the index and middle fingers of the other hand.

 _“_ Two sisters _more_ as well,” she said. Then, focusing her attention bcak on the V-ed digits of the first hand, she continued. "The first will be yours to do with as you please, my sweet. That’s Mummy’s gift to you.”

Spike smiled at her, deciding he was content to just play along, barmy bint or not. “You givin’ me a prezzie, pet?”

“Why, that’s the reason I made you,” she responded distractedly, studying the two fingers of her other hand. When she glanced up at Spike, her eyes were laced with worry.

“What is it, kitten?”

“The other sisters...they bring danger, Spoike,” she whispered, then she tilted her head and reconsidered her fingers. Shrugging, she added, “Or perhaps they bring life.”

Drusilla’s eyes suddenly went gold and her demon emerged, fangs and ridges appearing under pale forehead. “One can be vicious as a demon,” she said, and then growled, low and menacing. “I think she means to play tricks with my darling boy.”

“Oh, no one’s gonna get ol’ Spike, pet,” he assured her, combing lengths of her hair off her brow in an effort to impart calm.

Her demon finally receded, lulled under his stroking finger tips, and she looked up wistfully, nodding at the ceiling.

“That’s just as well,” Dru told the rafters.

“What's just as well, Dru?” he asked, and he, too, gazed up at the ceiling, trying to find the focus of her attention. “Pet, who the bleedin’ hell’re you talkin’ to?”

She looked down with a smile of pity, leaned in to place a kiss on the tip of his nose. “You walk in worlds others can’t begin to imagine,” she said, echoing words of the past. “You’ve always wanted something glowing, glistening.” After a small sniff, she added, “Effulgent.”

“Dru, what-”

Wiggling her fingers gently around his temples, she said, “Baby fish swim ‘round your head like tiny bits of wire, sparking and burning.” She placed her palms flat against his temples and looked into his eyes. “But they won’t keep my strong, virile boy down. Whatever you do, Spoike, you must remember to keep the sun at your back in the wake of Alisher’s folly.”

“Alisher’s folly, pet?”

Dru nodded. “Before the world is nothing but dust.”

She held his gaze steadily for a second, attention focused on him, perhaps waiting for some acknowledgement that he’d grasped the meaning of her words. Then her expression went blank, her pupils shrunk to pinpoints, and before he could even blink, Sane Dru was gone, leaving Crazy Dru in her stead, cryptic prophecies in her wake...and Spike to decipher it all.

Bloody hell.

~*~*~*~

_Sunnydale, 2001_

Xander wasn’t surprised when his question triggered a nod from both Giles and Anya, nor was he surprised to find their recognition accompanied by looks of sheer confusion from the remainder of the gang.

“Uh, nope, don’t know ’em.” Buffy shook her head.

Willow and Tara followed suit, their heads rotating in unison from side to side. Dawn just sat there, staring back at him, her face bright, as it almost always was, with curiosity.

Giles cleared his throat. “Alaylashmi -- uh, Layla, as Xander has named her -- is an extraordinarily powerful mythological princess. One of two, in fact. Twins.”

“Ooooh, I like princess stories,” said Buffy. “Do the animals sing and dance in this one?”

“Think a little less Disney, a bit more Stanley Kubrick, Buffster,” Xander grinned.

Buffy pouted. “Okay, well, you said they were twins. Were they identical or paternal?”

“It’s _fruh-_ ternal, you moron,” Dawn said under her breath.

“Not exactly identical,” answered Anya. “More like perfect mirror images of one another. Opposites in every way. Both of them very, very beautiful.”

“Sorta like yin and yang,” Xander added, flush with excitement to be counted among those providing the answers. “One of them was light, the other was dark.” He made two C’s with his hands and moved the ends together, forming a circle as he spoke. “And when they worked together, they restored the balance of...I don’t know, _something_ , and it gave all of their spells this giant turbo boost.” He made a quiet _pow_ sound, flaring his hands apart in emphasis.

“Nice,” breathed Willow.

Giles eyebrows lifted in surprise, then he nodded at Xander in approval. “An indivisible duality,” the older man agreed. “And they came from power, too. Their parents were both impressive sorcerers, though they quite paled in comparison to Layla and Mina.”

“Mina, that’s the light sister. She was a _total_ Goodie Two Shoes,” said Anya with a roll of her eyes. “Prim and proper, kind to everyone. Boringly obedient.”

“Layla was, like, _so_ _much cooler_ ,” Xander said in a mock Valley Girl voice, and he smiled when it provoked a laugh from Anya. In a more normal voice, he added, “Seriously, though, she did all the fun stuff…you know, climbing trees, getting dirty, playing little pranks around the village, causing general ruckus. And I guess she was stubborn as hell.” 

Giles picked up the story from there. “It was her stubbornness that became her ultimate downfall, actually. The twins’ father, King….” And then the watcher’s voice trailed off, his face scrunched, as he searched his memory for the right name. “Blast, what the hell was it?”

“Believe the bloke’s name was _Alisher,_ mate.”

The answer came from a far corner of the store, and it was followed immediately by the slam of the basement door and the clomp of heavy boots as Spike emerged from the dim shadows, all black leather and platinum waves. He sauntered across the showroom, duster trailing behind him.

The master vampire didn’t seem to care that he’d interrupted their meeting, eschewing the research table to settle upon the metal desk shoved behind it. Xander watched as Spike sort of leapt upon the desktop and relaxed against the wall, drawing a knee up and resting his elbow upon it...all in one fluid motion, with the intrinsic grace of a dangerous feline predator channeling its inner Mikhail Baryshnikov.

For the first time in...well, _ever_ , Xander actually found himself _admiring_ Spike. Understanding his strength and confidence, the hopefulness in his face, his eagerness to be part of the group. And feeling no contempt or bitterness in the process.

 _Yikes_.

At the same time, however, Xander noted that Buffy’s expression didn’t reflect the same complacency. Like the rest of the Scoobies, she’d turned, eyes drawn to the noisy interruption, then once she’d noted it was Spike, had spun back around, huffing dramatically and rolling her eyes.

“What do you want _today_ , Spike?” she sighed.

“Out runnin’ errands, Slayer,” he scowled. “Could hear you lot talkin’ from the tunnels, happened to know the answer to the watcher’s question.”

“Well, aren’t vampires supposed to, you know... _hibernate_ during the day?” she asked.

“’M not a bloody grizzly bear,” he grumbled.

“So you were just having yourself a little _stroll_ through the sewers and just _happened_ to be in the neighborhood to eavesdrop?”

“Told you, pet, was runnin’ errands. One of ’em was to come make a trade with the demon bird,” he defended. “’N anyways, ’t’s free country, innit?”

“Free and capitalist,” Anya agreed. “If you’ve come with money to spend, Spike, I’d be happy to relieve you of it.” She stood and gestured with her hand, inviting the vampire to follow her up to the cash register.

“Ahn,” Xander said, interrupting their departure with his own outstretched hand. When Anya paused, Xander flashed her a grateful smile before turning to Spike.  “Spike, wait. Don’t leave. What were you saying, now?”

A look of surprised confusion filled the vampire’s face. Six equally confused Scooby stares accompanied it, reflecting back at Xander from various angles around the table.

Xander was no fool; he knew why. _He_ was the one who normally issued the daily kick-Spike-to-the-curb dismissals. He _never_ extended an invitation to join their discussions or expressed appreciation for _any_ contributions Spike could possibly make.

But the thing was, in the second Spike had appeared in the Magic Box, Xander realized he’d almost… _missed_ the guy. He never acknowledged it before, but in the year or two he’d had to get to know Spike, he’d accepted the vampire as part of their group. Had trusted him enough to fight beside him. Had witnessed his unwavering loyalty to the Scoobies.

And yeah, he knew the loyalty bit was more for Buffy’s and Dawn’s especial benefit, but he’d have to be blind in _both_ eyes to argue that the rest of them hadn’t also profited by extension.

After all, how many times had it been _Spike_ swooping in to help save the day? It was _Spike’s_ idea to form a truce with Buffy in the Angel-and-Acathla business all those years ago. When Anya was attacked by one of D’Hoffryn’s henchmen behind the Bronze last year, it was _Spike_ who’d been there to defend her. When Glory kidnapped and tortured him for information about the Key, it was _Spike_ who’d kept his lips sealed and Dawn safe. _Spike_ who’d appropriated the RV for their escape from Glory and the Knights of Byzantium. _Spike_ who took care of Dawn all those long, lonely months after Buffy’s death. _Spike_ who’d lifted Xander’s battered body and helped him out of the wine cellar after Caleb’s attack left him down an eye.

 _Spike_ who had died for them all, who’d sacrificed himself in the battle against the First, to defeat the Turok-Han and close the Hellmouth.

So while Xander knew it was, quite literally, out of _this_ Xander’s character to invite a demon’s participation, he also knew that he needed help from _all_ of them. D’Hoffryn and the shaman had dropped enough hints.

For now, he’d feign ignorance.

“King Alisher?” Xander prompted Spike, ignoring the rest of the confused stares.

“Uh, yeah,” the vampire stammered, his eyebrows furrowed. “So, as I was saying, uh, King Alisher’s the bloke the watcher’s talkin’ about.”

“You’re familiar with the story?”

“S’pose I am,” the vampire shrugged.

“Well, why don’t you stick around and help tell it, then,” Xander suggested, watching for Spike’s reaction. “I could really use your help.”

Almost in unison, seven audible gasps resounded, as seven individual brains processed the fact that Xander -- Mr. I-Hate-Every-Demon-In-Existence -- had just willingly requested a favor of William the Bloody.

_Yep, that might’ve done it._

It took a few seconds of silence, and it was Willow who found her voice first.

“Xander?” the redhead intoned. “Uh, are you feelin’ okay?”

“I’m fine, Will,” he replied, eyes still trained on a somewhat startled Spike.

“You sure?” came Buffy’s voice.

“Mmhmm.”

“And you’re not hot or clammy or dizzy or anything?” added Dawn. “Maybe you should sit down.”

Spike smirked. Xander rolled his eyes but dropped into a chair.

“So as Captain Peroxide, there, was saying,” he continued, “Big King Alisher’s the daddy of these two twin girls who are uber powerful on their own, and, like, ten times more so together. So one day, the dark twin, Layla, tells Daddy she’s got a boyfriend, right? And-”

“Was more ’n a bloody _boyfriend_ ,” Spike muttered. When he noticed he’d drawn the entire table’s attention, he cleared his throat and continued in a louder voice. “Was more ’n that. Layla ’n Majnun...they grew up together, from the time they were lil’ sprogs to bloody teenage hormone bombs. Had all the same firsts, caused all the same kinds o’ trouble. See, they _loved_ each other.” Spike paused for dramatic effect, then shrugged. “Just wasn’t good enough for dear ol’ Dad.”

“That is _so_ romantic,” breathed Dawn.

Buffy rolled her eyes.

“King Alisher _was_ rather overprotective of his daughters,” Giles agreed, then he took a sip of tea as the attention turned back to him. “But in this case, he was merely acting as _any_ king would. As any _father_ would, I suspect,” he added, with a quick glance at Buffy. “He wanted _better_ for his daughters. Let’s not forget that they were of royal lineage. As such, the twins were expected to make strategic alliances, to marry into families that would strengthen the kingdom’s influence. Layla’s chosen suitor was merely the son of the village healer.”

“But wait, I thought you said he was a magi. Isn’t that, like, a _good_ thing? Some kind of wise guy or something?” remarked Buffy.

“Magi?” repeated Giles in confusion.

“Yeah, you know, Magi Noon?” she clarified.

“It’s _Majnun_ , pet,” chuckled Spike. “Not some bloody lunchtime magician.”

Buffy scowled at him.

Giles cleared his throat as the rest of the table’s inhabitants hid giggles under coughs and bit lips against smiles.

“Yes, well, when Layla avowed to run away with Majnun against her father’s wishes,” Giles said, “King Alisher banished the boy and his father from the kingdom.”

“Which, of course, only incited Layla’s anger even more,” added Xander.

“Yes, quite right,” said Giles. “In retaliation, Layla enacted a powerful vengeance spell that destroyed their whole dimension.”

“And _that’s_ not the understatement of the soddin’ century,” Spike muttered.

“Whaddaya mean?” asked Dawn.

“Think volcanic lava,” said Xander. “A great big tidal wave of it, Dawnie, burnin’ up the world. And all the little babies and the puppies and the birdies and the-”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Dawn said. “She’s a scary biotch.”

“Oh, Layla’s a tad more ’n scary, Little Bit,” chuckled Spike. “The bird’s vengeance is _legendary_. Some o’ the stuff she did….” The vampire shook his head and whistled, his expression one of equal fear and respect. “If you combined Glorificus and Freddie Kreuger and Adolf bloody Hitler, it’d _still_ be like the soddin’ Easter Bunny compared to Layla.”

“And can I just say thank you very much for _that_ image, Mr. Vampy Pants,” complained Anya.

“Yes, well, suffice it to say her vengeance was mighty, and just as the last of these rivers of fire swallowed Alisher,” Giles continued, “the king hurled an unbreakable curse at Layla, banishing her to another plane of existence, where she’s always just a hair’s breadth away from the rest of the living world, and where he could ensure she’d spend eternity alone, wallowing forever in her own vengeful anguish.”

“Talk about daddy issues,” Xander lamented.

“No, talk about water cooler vengeance,” Anya corrected. By the gleam in her eye, she was clearly swept up in the drama of the story. “Layla’s basically cursed to an eternity as a cosmic vacuum cleaner. Going around to every war and natural disaster in just about every dimension, sucking out all the leftover pain and anguish.” The ex-demon lightly hugged herself around the middle, her face suddenly wistful. “The legend of Layla is one of the most important chapters in the Vengeance Handbook.”

“And here I complained about _my_ summer reading,” Dawn smirked. Tara smiled at her.

“Oh, it’s a gripping read!” Anya assured her. “Sort of like...Romeo and Juliet meets the Fall of Pompeii.” Then she added, “And the Bubonic Plague.”

"Gripping," Buffy intoned.

“There’s even a nursery rhyme about her,” Anya continued. “Most demon children learn it while they’re still in the cradle. Lemme think for a second, I might be able to remember a little bit of it. It went something like-”

“But I don’t get it,” interrupted Dawn. She turned to Xander. “What does this have to do with us?”

“A fine question,” announced Giles. “Allow me to add to it. Why are we sitting around telling stories when our time would be better spent figuring out how to defeat Glory?”

“Well, see, that’s the thing,” said Xander. “If we’re not careful, this battle with Glory could trigger a domino effect...one that ends with Layla and Majnun making a return visit. As in _together_. And in _this_ dimension.”

“But that would-” Giles started, staring at Xander in confusion. “Xander, that’s preposterous. The stories of Layla and Majnun are just _that…._ mere stories at best.”

“ _Stories_?” Anya scoffed. “I don’t suppose you’d say that to the face of the dozens of vengeance demons who’ve actually come in contact with Layla, right?” She shook her head with wide eyes. “She’s no party, I tell ya, no party _at_ _all_. No siree.”

“Anya, you’ve seen her?” asked Giles. “You’re telling me you’ve actually _met_ this Layla of legend?”

“Oh, no, I’ve never actually _met_ her,” admitted the ex-demon.

“Well, I should hope not,” replied Giles in relief. “If you really _had_ come across Alaylashmi...if these stories really _are_ true? I rather doubt you’d have lived to tell the tale.”

“That bad, huh?” Willow asked.

“Quite so,” confirmed the watcher with a nod.

“Well, of course I’ve never actually _met_ her,” Anya clarified, rolling her eyes. “One doesn’t exactly _meet_ Layla, Giles, considering the fact that she’s on a _different plane of existence_. But I’ve definitely gotten close enough to _feel_ her.”

This time, it wasn’t only Giles who reacted. Xander gasped, his attention locked on Anya. From across the table, an echoing clang resounded as Spike’s Doc Martens made contact with the side of the metal desk.

“You’ve-you’ve been near enough t’ _feel_ her, pet?” the vampire asked incredulously, pushing himself off the desktop and onto the floor. “ _The_ Layla?”

“Well, sure. Lots of times. Why do you think she’s part of the Handbook?” Anya waited a beat, received nothing but stares back. “Okay, look, when I was a vengeance demon, the really big, gruesome death scenes...they were kinda my _thing_.”

Xander shuddered, remembering firsthand just _how_ big and gruesome her “thing” actually was.

“It was my _job_ ,” Anya defended when she saw her boyfriend’s reaction. “And I was good at it.”

“Actually, I know,” Xander replied sincerely. “Ahn, you’re good at just about everything you do.”

“I am, aren’t I?” she replied with a smile. Flattery always worked. “Anyways, it’s my motto that if you’re gonna do something, you might as well do it _right_. So I always stuck around after every vengeance job was done. You know, made sure all the pieces fell where they should’ve. Often meant I was leaving right as Layla was showing up.”

“Hit ’er on the shift change, eh, pet?” Spike asked.

Anya nodded.

“I can’t even _tell_ you how many times I teleported over her plane. _Dozens,_ at least. I’d think it probably happens to _all_ vengeance demons, at one time or another” she added. “I mean, think about it. The whole vengeful death and destruction thing...causing anguish...living off anguish...”

Anya extended her hands as if demonstrating a balance between the options in her palms.

“Makes sense,” shrugged Tara, and the rest of the group nodded in agreement.

“And it never affected you?” Giles asked.

“Well, unless you consider passing over a soul-sucking black abyss of despair a fun walk in the park,” remarked Anya as a violent shiver shook her body, “I’d say that, yeah, it definitely affected me.”

“Okay, so then, let’s assume the stories about Layla are real,” said Giles.

“Which they are,” Anya affirmed.

Giles gave her a wary sideways glance.

“Real enough,” Xander agreed, “that there’s a prophecy about their return, Giles.”

“Come again?” Giles asked. “A prophecy?”

“Ya-huh,” Xander nodded. “It’s kinda what ties this whole story back to us. A prophecy was found about a hundred years ago. Said Layla’d return sometime after the Hellmouth falls in the land of the wasted sun.”

“A rather interesting choice of words,” Giles remarked, staring at Xander thoughtfully for a moment. “You said a _return after the fall of the Hellmouth in the land of the wasted sun_?”

Xander nodded.

The watcher turned on his heel and strode over to a teetering bookstack, and after a quick study of the spines, extracted a small leather-bound tome from the pile. He fanned the pages under this thumb, searching a few lines until he found the passage he was looking for, then read silently for a few moments with his finger trailing the sentences.

“Yes, here it is,” he finally said.

The watcher took a breath and started reading aloud, slowly translating the words as he went:

“And in the End Years there will be a colossal battle. One like none the world has ever known before, commencing between the ultimate good and the original evil. And at its end, the collapse of the gates to hell and the return of love over tragedy in the wasted land of the sun.”

“That’d be the one,” confirmed Xander.

“Well, Xander, that prophecy is not about Layla,” assured Giles. “It’s, well...”

The Englishman shut the book’s cover, his finger acting as a bookmark as he held it up, pointing to the oddly shaped symbols gracing the cover. He translated the title for the group. “Pergámou Ko̱dikós. The Pergamum Codex.”

“Oh, not _that_ thing again,” whined Buffy.

“What?” Dawn asked.

“The Pergamum Codex,” Giles repeated. “An ancient text containing the most complete prophecies about the Slayer’s role in the End Times.”

“That’s the same book that told Giles I’d go up against the Master,” Buffy explained. With a smirk, she added “Said I’d die doin’ it, too.”

“Hey, any juicy tidbits ’bout me in there, Rupes?” Spike asked hopefully.

Scowling at the vampire, but otherwise ignoring his inquiry, Giles turned back to Xander and said, “The point is that the prophecy you speak of is infamous among the Watcher’s Council. Not because it’s about Layla, but because it’s in reference to the Slayer’s part in the final battle of the world and good’s ultimate triumph over evil. So while an important prediction for certain, it’s by no means about the return of some legendary magical princess. And furthermore, whether or not we agree that she’s fictitious, I believe it’s pretty safe to say that Layla’s never been referred to as the ‘original evil.’”

“Mmhmm,” agreed Xander. “So what if the Codex translation’s just a little bit off?” Xander waited a beat before adding, “And what if we’re not actually talking about the _original evil_ part?”

“Explain,” directed Giles.

“Well, see, that’s a kind of long story,” replied Xander. When Giles went to rebut, Xander raised a hand to shush him. “I’m gonna tell it. I _need_ to tell it. But first, I need you guys to promise you’ll keep an open mind and will hear me out before you start shoutin’ that I’m crazy. ’Cause it’s gonna sound an awful lot like I am.”

“Sure, Xan, we promise,” said Willow, and Tara nodded over the redhead’s shoulder.

“Alright,” agreed Giles.

Buffy, Dawn, and Anya all intoned similar affirmations.

When the dim corner behind the research table remained silent, Xander turned to address the vampire sitting there. “That goes for you, too, Spike.”

“What the bleedin’ hell did _I_ do?” Spike sneered. When Xander refused to withdraw his gaze, the vampire rolled his eyes and acquiesced, raising three pale fingers in an undead boy scout salute and saying, “Fine, I hereby solemnly swear I won’t call you bat-shaggin’ bonkers before you’ve finished your lil’ fairy tale. Satisfied?”

Xander nodded once in acknowledgement, then glanced quickly at Anya and smiled. It was now or never.

“Guys, what would you say if I told you,” he began, “that I’m from the future?”


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Things That Do Sound So Fair

** Chapter Thirteen: Things That Do Sound So Fair **

An awkward silence hung for several long seconds.

Then, all at once, the research table erupted into a mind-numbing explosion of thunderous noise and chaos, as seven excited voices fought for top billing. On pure reflex, Xander flinched, and as his body braced itself defensively, he felt that  _essence_  deep within him called up.

Time slowed.

Well, it didn’t really  _slow_ , per se. His perception just sort of...sharpened, separating the activity around him into easier-to-manage chunks of information. Like a giant Xander-shaped transistor radio, able to tune itself between the different sounds and smells and movements around him.

Dawn’s voice registered first. “Why can’t you  _ever_  be serious, you  _goober_?” she screamed, punctuating it with a notepad chucked at Xander’s head.

A small shift to the left of  _that_  was the deafening clang of Spike’s palm on the metal desktop. “Ha! He’s off ’is bloody rocker!” the vampire howled. “I knew it! I knew it!”

A trifle in  _this_  direction came Giles’ polished, “Good lord.” He glared at the animated Spike, yanked the glasses from his nose, then repeated the imprecation a second time. “Good lord!”

A tilt away from  _that_ was a nails-on-chalkboard screech of Buffy shoving her chair back. She reached toward Xander’s forehead, but before she made contact, Dawn’s notepad came spiraling out of nowhere, rebounding off the Slayer’s fingertips. She spun angrily. “Goddamn it, Dawn!”

“Oh, c’mon, Xan,” Willow’s tired voice lamented, just a small shift over in  _this_ direction. Then the notepad ricocheted off Buffy’s fingers, smacking the redhead square on the cheek, and her somewhat moanier “Ow!” joined the Slayer’s irritated expletive.

An itty bitty shift behind  _that_  was Tara’s gentle voice. “Xander, what are — oh, goddess! Willow!” And as she reached for her girlfriend, her hand met the teacup in front of her, upending it with a  _tink_. A fragrant river of amber liquid spilled over the rim and onto the table.

Anya’s shrill voice was only a bit to the left of  _that_ , and from the seat nearest the cash register, she wailed, “ _Alexander Harris_ , what did you do  _this time_?”

It all happened at once, in a roaring barrage — the jibes, the exasperation, the concern, the questions, the fucking  _flying object_  — seven different reactions on seven different layers. And he could fan them out and study them like seven different playing cards.

Well,  _that’s_  kinda cool.

His dealt hand was abandoned with Buffy’s return to his side — done knocking Dawn upside the head, no doubt — and she reached out, touching a soft palm to Xander’s forehead. He vaguely heard her mumble, “Well, you don’t feel warm,” before a stream of consciousness blinked to life behind his eyelids.

It was just a brief snippet at the forefront of her mind — the memory of a sterile hospital room, Willow clapping Glory away, and  _his_  scruffy ass appearing. One part of his brain acknowledged the weirdness of viewing it from this different angle. Another part struggled to rectify  _this_  version with its not-quite-identical predecessor, three years senior in Xander’s memory.

But the biggest part of him concentrated solely on the anomaly of the world inside the Slayer’s mind.

There was a pervading feeling of  _one-ness_ to Buffy, making him awash with emotions he hadn’t experienced inside Giles and Anya. He instantly felt lonely and forsaken, loved and cherished, powerful and chosen, all at the same time.

Damn, she was  _strong_. A warrior through and through, aware of  _everything_...from Dawn’s steady breathing behind her, to the twitch in Glory’s nose when the glittery potion hit her face, to the increase in the room’s magical energy preceding Xander’s reappearance.

And her slayer sense was positively abuzz, a low and incessant vibration with Spike so near. That... _comforted_  her with its strength and its familiarity.

She’d never mentioned that before.

All in all, the sheer magnitude of  _Buffy_  nearly overwhelmed him. Holy  _fuck_ , he was gonna have to learn how to control this shit, and fast. These emotional head-on collisions, one right after another, were  _exhausting_.

“Wow,” he breathed when she pulled her hand away. “ _That_  was a little intense.”

He looked up into deeply furrowed Buffy brows and emerald eyes that were studying him dubiously. He knew he’d have only moments before she started in on the questions.

“Yes, well,” Giles muttered, and Xander was relieved when the watcher’s voice drew Buffy’s attention away from him. “If by  _a little intense_ ,” the older man continued, “you mean that your skull is still reverberating....” His voice trailed off, and he rubbed his temple, shooting the vampire a glare that was rewarded with a two finger salute. The watcher sighed. “As for its  _cause_ , Xander. Surely you don’t think you can make some monumental statement and simply be taken at your word?”

“I  _told_  you it was a long story,” Xander said, then he flipped his thumb at the table. “If you could just get  _these_  yahoos to shut up, I’ll tell it.” As an afterthought, he smiled and added, “And don’t call me Shirley.”

Spike snickered.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Giles groaned.

“Look,” Xander announced with a grin. “It’s just like I said. When I woke up yesterday morning, I wasn’t in Sunnydale. Most of us weren’t, actually. And it wasn’t 2001.” He scanned the faces that surrounded him. “Like... _you_ ,” he finally said, gesturing to Buffy. “You’ve spent the last couple months kicking demon ass at the Cleveland Hellmouth.”

“Cleveland? Wait, there’s another hellmouth?” Buffy asked, doubt on her face as she looked to Giles for confirmation.

“Several, actually,” her watcher nodded. “Cleveland and Chile for sure. Possibly Romania.”

“Romania’s a bust,” Xander said, shaking his head. “But there  _is_  one in France. City’s called Loo-dan or Loo-dawn or...something.”

“La bouche de l'enfer de Loudun,” Spike recited in an oddly refined, definitely perfect French accent.

Xander giggled childishly and repeated, “La boosh de lawn-fair. That always sounds so  _dirty_.”

“Wait,” Giles was taken aback. “The Loudun possessions were genuine?”

“Oui,” said the vampire. “Geez, Watcher, when’re you gonna get it through your thick skull that the Council’s not the end-all be-all? Haven’t you ever read Aldous Huxley?”

“I certainly have,” Giles replied haughtily. “I am also aware that the accounts of possession were, in reality, driven by political corruption, sexual repression, and an attempt to convert a mostly Protestant population to Catholicism.”

“Oh, the possessions were just as real as the corruption and the repression,” Anya confirmed. With a wave of her hand, she added, “And there was always  _someone_ those pesky Catholics were trying to manipulate.” Mocking secrecy behind her hand, she said, “Back in those days, almost  _all_  of the Catholic priests were sorcerers. Urbain just happened to get caught.”

“See?” asked the vampire, smiling smugly as Giles glanced between him and Anya with his mouth open.

“Um, okay,” Willow interjected slowly. “So, uh, lots of hellmouths. Check. And you say it’s not 2001 where you come from?”

“2003,” Xander replied. “And it’s, uh...” He hadn’t so much as glanced at a calendar since he’d left Sunnydale. “September? Maybe October? I don’t know, been a while since I looked...or cared.”

His best friend’s dubious glance was far more telling than any verbal response would’ve been, and a quick scan around the table told him the sentiment was shared. They all pretty much thought he was certifiable.

“Okay, look. I’m not crazy,” he reassured them, palms up in pseudo surrender as he looked from one face to the next. “And yeah, I know that’s the first thing a crazy person would say, but I’m really not. It’s just-”

His eyes landed back on Dawn and his train of thought suddenly stopped short.

The youngest Summers was sprawled on a wooden chair, all gawky legs and long arms, and she was staring back at him with eager doe eyes, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. This was the Dawnie at the tail end of her Xander crush, before the abandonment issues, the shoplifting, the lying, the self-harm. Back when her fear of Glory was still somewhat tempered by the security of mom, a big sis, a bevy of older friends.

_ This  _ Dawnie had yet to be accepted into the inner circle. Over the next couple of years, she’d become a treasured and respected confidante...with plenty of secrets he wouldn’t have otherwise known  _now_.

The gears started turning in his head.

Ooooh, she was gonna be  _pissed_.

“You know,” he said, drawing the words out slowly as his gaze lingered over the girl. He fought the sinister urge to rub his hands together. “I’m pretty sure I know how t’ prove it to you guys.”

Under his extended attention, Dawn’s blush deepened further and her blue eyes flickered nervously around the table.

“It’s kinda weird to see you so  _young_ ,” he told her when her eyes returned to his. “The Dawnie  _I_  know is a senior in high school. She has a ton of friends, a part time job….” He winked. “A new car.”

That last bit piqued her interest, as he knew it would, and she raised her eyebrows and sat up straighter.

“Last time we talked,” he went on with a smile, “you said you liked all your classes. Especially Latin. Although you said they should be paying  _you_  to teach it ’cause the real teacher’s a nimrod.” He chuckled. “Hardly any wonder, though, since you’ve been teaching yourself all those ancient languages for, like,  _ever_. Right?”

He paused, watching her head avert as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  _One more Dawn bomb to drop_ , he thought,  _and that should just about do it._

“I mean,” he continued smoothly, “you’ve already started collecting all those books under your bed, haven’t you?” Her head suddenly popped up, and he saw the anxiety in Dawn’s pupils as he went in for the kill. “You know, the ones you sneak from Giles’ bookshelves?”

Dawn’s sudden gasp —  _yep, that did it_  — sounded like it probably hurt, and her eyes gaped out of their sockets as she swiveled her head frantically between him and the elder Brit.

“Wha-? How-? I don’t—  I— ” Dawn stuttered.

Xander laughed, instantly taking pity on the girl. “We had to replace the wall between your bedrooms after Spike pulled Andr —” He caught himself, though not in enough time to prevent the confusion on Spike’s face. Xander chose to ignore it. “We had to move your bed to fix the wall, and you must’ve had, like, twenty books hidden under there. Giles nearly killed you.”

“As I might still,” warned the watcher, glaring at the girl. His voice was stern when he asked, “Which books, Dawn?”

“Uh—” she stammered.

“Well done, Lil’ Bit,” cheered Spike.

“Oh, you  _would_  encourage her,” muttered Giles.

“Don’t listen to him, Dawnie,” Xander chuckled. “He’s all bark. The Giles  _I_  know brags about you all the time.” He snuck a peek at the grumpy ex-librarian, taking aim for his next direct hit. “He always says you remind him of his Grandma Edna.”

The look of shock on the watcher’s face was  _more_ than worth the trouble.  _Nailed it._

“Who’s Grandma Edna?” Tara asked from across the table.

“Hmmm? Oh, uh, my father’s mother,” Giles answered, shocked eyes still fastened on Xander. Softer, he mused, “I guess I’ve never told you about her.”

“Probably another stuffy watcher type,” Buffy guessed in a stage whisper. “Giles hails from a long line of tweed.”

“She was a watcher, yes,” Giles affirmed, glancing over at his slayer with a smile. “With a rather prominent Council role, in fact.” And with a flick of his head, he added, “But  _stuffy_  may be a bit imprecise. Grandmother was remarkably clever and quick-witted, as any good watcher should be, but she loved nothing better than a good challenge to the Council’s status quo.”

“An anti-Council watcher, huh?” asked Willow appreciatively.

Happy to have the focus off her, Dawn poked her sister in the back and added, “Sounds right up  _your_ alley.”

Giles removed his glasses and wiped them again, nodding with a smile. “She definitely kept the Council on their toes...the rest of us as well,” he added, placing his spectacles back on his nose. “She was always going out of her way to make a statement. At the Farewell Tour in ’68, she flashed Eric Clapton for backstage tickets.” He grinned at the memory. “What a bloody amazing night.”

“Royal Albert Hall?” Spike asked.

“None other.”

“Not a bad show.”

“Not their best either, but no...not bad at all,” Giles agreed, his expression a million miles away for a few seconds. Then he shook his head and refocused on his slayer. “And Dawn’s right, Buffy. You’d have loved her.”

“When Edna was a student at the Watcher’s Academy,” Xander broke in, “there was this really old and powerful vampire they kept chained in the school’s dungeons.”

“They kept a vampire chained in the  _dungeons_?” Buffy asked, a wry glance at Giles. “Initiative much?”

“But why?” Tara added.

“The older the vampire, pet,” Spike said, “the richer the information. Just  _think_  of what a valuable commodity that’d be for the ol’ Council of Wankers, eh?”

“And the guy’s name was Roche, right?” Xander asked Giles for confirmation. “The vampire?”

The watcher seemed frozen on the spot, his mouth hanging open as he stared at Xander.

“Yeah, ’t’s Roche.” Spike volunteered from the back of the room. “Ugly n’ wrinkly as ol’ Bat Face, got himself caught in the 20’s.” A bit louder than under his breath, he added, “Ponce owes me fifty quid.”

Buffy sighed and rolled her eyes, “Do you name drop just to sound  _cool_?”

Her question earned a smirk from Spike and a giggle from both Tara and Dawn.

“Spike’s right,” Giles murmured distractedly, still studying Xander. He shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs. “Uh...about Roche. Not the fifty quid.”

“Right. So this one day,” Xander continued, “a few teachers took Edna and some of the other students down into the dungeons...to, uh,  _listen to Roche”_ — Xander made air quotes for emphasis— _“_ tell stories about other famous vampires. What none of them realized, though, was his  _sire_ was posing as one of the students, but was comin’ to bust ’im out. Apparently, she put the teachers under her thrall so they’d do the work of delivering dinner.”

“Like lambs to the slaughter, I’d wager,” Spike guessed, and when Xander nodded, he responded in kind. “’T’s a classic trick. One Dru was rather fond of, come t’ think of it.”

“And Edna totally figured it out,” Xander said. “She trashes their plan, goes after the sire, tears into her teachers for bein’ idiots...and then leaves ’em all down there in the dungeons to go flirt with Grandpa Giles.”

Appreciative laughter surfaced from everyone but Grandma Edna’s namesake. Giles simply remained motionless, staring back at Xander with that same look of studious surprise on his face. Very slowly, he drew his glasses from the bridge of his nose down into his lap, where he repolished them absentmindedly with the corner of his shirt.

“How come you’ve never told us about her before, Giles?” asked Dawn.

“I...I…uh...” the watcher stammered. After a moment to collect his thoughts, he added, “Well, I suppose it’s never come up.”

Xander smirked.

“Oh, it will, Dawnie,” he promised her, rolling his eyes. “ _Everything_  you do reminds him of her. He says so all the time. She was mondo badass. And you may think you’re only the sister of the Slayer, but you’re pretty badass, too.”

~*~*~*~

Something was up with Xander.

And not just with the time travel-y stuff.

Buffy hadn’t noticed anything weird last night or this morning, when he’d first said hello. And outside of the whole  _knowing everything_  sitch, he’d sounded pretty normal when he helped tell the princess story.

But when he’d announced he was a time traveler, Buffy had reached out to touch him, and the instant her skin touched his, it was  _there_. A tiny spark. A little flare of sixth slayer sense, tickling the back of her neck to alert that something demonic was close. And when she’d peered into his eyes, he’d looked at her with this weird sort of... _reverence_. As if he’d known what she’d been thinking.

Which was most definitely of the wig-some.

She had little time to consider it further, as the  _ding_  of the shop’s front bell heralded the arrival of their pizzas. Buffy watched as Xander walked across the showroom to greet the delivery boy. Her friend didn’t really  _look_  any different. Well, okay, maybe he held his head up a little higher...and his gait was a little more confident...but then again, she could’ve just been looking for connections where there really weren’t any.

When he returned to the table with four fragrant pies, a small paper bag topped the stack of pizza boxes. Xander grabbed it and tossed it to Spike.

“Whassis?” the bleached vampire asked, reaching out to grab the parcel in midair. With a quick tear of the paper, he upended the contents over an empty corner of the desk. Several see-through packets of crushed red pepper flakes tumbled out, along with a small plastic container of pepperoncinis and a sealed tub of something liquid and red. Hot sauce, she guessed, since she doubted the local pizzeria offered blood on the menu.

Spike studied the spicy condiments, confusion twisting his face, and as she watched him, Buffy knew he was just as puzzled about Xander’s special order as he was about the invitation it implied. She was just as confused about it.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft, uncertain, and — after that out-of-the-blue French recitation, dare she think it again? — almost  _refined_.

Spike looked at her friend. “Um, thank you, Xander.”

Buffy gasped, nearly choking on her own saliva, and when Dawn turned to pat her on the back, she noted the surprise in her sister’s eyes as well. A quick survey of her friends and Giles told her the sentiment was shared.

“Oh, no problem,” Xander said offhandedly as he went about opening pizza boxes with no regard — at least as far as Buffy could tell — for the enormity of what had just occurred.

Xander had either failed to notice or he was deliberately feigning disinterest. She wondered which it was.

“Pineapple for the super witches,” Xander announced, holding out the first pizza box to Willow without looking up from the second. “Pepperoni for me and Giles.” He opened the third. “Extra veggie, Ahn and Buffy.” Xander handed the pizza to a stupefied Anya, then opened the last box, winced, and shut the lid with a cardboard bang. “Anchovies for Dawnie and Spike. And might I add, that is  _rank_.” He curled his lip in disgust as he shoved the final pizza across the table.

Wait a minute. Did he just—?

Xander was on his third mouthful of greasy, meat-and-cheesy goodness before he looked up and noticed that he was the only one eating. And then, knowing they were all just standing there staring back at him, he merely finished chewing  _that_  bite and took another, his face sort of relaxing around the bulge in his cheek.

What was  _up_  with him?

“Yeah….so, uh,” Buffy began, “while I love a good pizza pigout just as much as the next guy...is anyone else feeling like….well, I mean...” At a loss for words, she gestured with both hands extended, one pointing at Xander, the other at Spike.

A wave of affirmation — Spike’s voice more obstreperous than the rest — swelled and ebbed across the table.

“So, uh...Xander?” Buffy prompted.

“Yeah, Harris, what the bloody hell  _is_  this?” added Spike. When Buffy looked back at him, the vampire was holding up a handful of plastic packaging. “Innit usually  _you_  at the helm o’ the  _SS We Hate Spike_?”

“Oh, c’mon, guys,” Xander grumbled. “I’m not  _always_  like that.”

Spike’s snort of derision got lost in a flood of the same.

“Have you  _completely_  lost it?” the vampire asked.

“Okay, fine,” Xander said. “Then how ’bout we just say that  _that_  ship has sunk, and I’ve had to circle back around for something with a few more bells and whistles? ’S that good?”

The gang seemed to settle at that, and Buffy reached for a slice of veggie as the rest of her friends began serving themselves. The store was quiet for a minute or two as the friends ate.

“Look,” Xander continued after a few mouthfuls, “yesterday, I was literally out in the middle of nowhere, and we were on the verge of some pretty nasty, definitely final, end-of-the-world shit. I’m talking, racing towards hell at the speed of light in a pink, polka-dotted handbasket shit.” Xander pointed the pizza-less hand inward toward his chest. “I’m afraid that  _this_ , my fine friends, was the only way to stop it.”

Utter silence reigned, and for several long seconds no one even chewed.

Then Spike groaned and rolled his eyes. “Bloody hell, the world is doomed,” the vampire lamented.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” added Giles.

~*~*~*~

It wasn’t the first time Spike had ever heard someone say they’d traveled through time. He’d come across a number of demons who’d said they could — some may have been able to — and a few lunatic humans who’d been minimally convincing.

When your unlife spans an eternity, you can pretty much bet the bank you’re gonna see and hear some bug shaggin’ crazy shit. He’d gotten pretty good at deciphering between the barm and the bona fide.

The Whelp, it appeared, was telling the truth.

From a purely physiological standpoint, Spike hadn’t sensed any of the bodily changes that would typically accompany a lie. Harris’ blood pressure and pulse stayed pretty normal. There’d been no variation in his breathing. Instead of the slightly sour odor that indicated deceitful anxiety, the scent that was emanating from the boy’s pores was its normal combination of junk food and lily-white guilelessness.

But that wasn’t how Spike knew.

It was that deep-down feeling he’d gotten the  _instant_ he’d overheard the Scoobies’ conversation, long before Xander had even uttered the words “I’m from the future.” It was that soddin’ king’s name, and it had brought it all rushing back, compelling him up from the cellar and out onto the magic shop floor. Eighty bloody years since that night in Rome, and Spike could suddenly recall every second of it in the finest of detail, as if it was only _yesterday_.

It wasn’t as if he’d forgotten. Not  _that_  night nor the year of nights he’d spent afterwards, poring through endless dusty reference books in search of a cipher to decode Dru’s prattle. But somewhere along the way, he’d boxed it all up and put it on a shelf in the back corner of his mind. Moved on to the next tasty morsel...the next bout of fangs or fisticuffs.

But now it was back, front and center, and Spike realized there was nothing he hated more than the thought of playing pawn to the bloody Fates.  _He_ was the master of his own domain, and he answered to  _no one_ , most especially not some soddin’ source of meddlin’ mystical energy that was free to weave and clip the threads of his destiny into some massive White Hat tapestry.

Those sorts of ideals were much more befitting of the poncey William, whose comfort came in the form of an ever powerful Victorian God, creator of all things, able to affect as well as shoulder the fate of the world.

Bugger  _that_.

And now, the fact that Spike’s big, bloody destiny arrived out of nowhere, on the backside of the soddin’ Whelp, in all his time travelin’, wanna-be, sidekick glory? Well, didn’t  _that_  just leave a taste in his mouth that was worse than a rancid, three-day-old blood clot.

“So let’s say we  _do_ believe you.”

Buffy’s voice halted Spike’s inner turmoil, and he gazed in her direction. She was chewing the inside of her lip, and he found himself  _aching_ to have a taste.

_ Quit staring, you prat. _

“Does that, like, make you some kinda Xander McFly?” she asked, her green eyes wide and adorable. “Got a photo in your back pocket? Some unsuspecting couple to throw together?”

“Uh, well...” Xander stammered, his eyes glancing at Spike, then to Buffy, then to Spike, then back to Buffy again.

Giles wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, cleared his throat as he reached for his tea, and said, “And, uh, you say you were in Africa?”

It came out sounding more statement than question, but Xander nodded.

“Well, what the bloody hell were you doing  _there_?” Spike asked. Perpetual sunshine and dusty sand. Been there, done that, don’t need the t-shirt.

The boy shrugged. “Went to see a man about a girl.”

It was the way Harris said it, and the way he studied Spike as if waiting for a reaction to his words, that sent a chilling frisson of  _déjà vu_ down the back of his undead neck. It mingled with that  _knowing_  feeling deep down in his belly and Spike was rendered speechless, unable to come up with his typical snarky reply.

“You, uh...you went to see a man?” prompted Giles, glancing uncertainly from Spike to Xander.

Harris nodded. “Spent a few months traveling down the eastern coast of Africa,” he said, ripping his crust into pieces and stuffing a chunk in his mouth. “Ended up in the Kalahari Desert, in a shaman’s hut out in the middle of BFE.” He swallowed, took another bite, and then tipped his chin at the watcher. “On the advice of a friend of yours, actually.”

Giles’ head tilted in curiosity. “Oh?”

“Yeah, Patrick something or other,” Xander replied. “Ex-watcher like you, I think, and the kind of British that’s heavy on the  _blimey_ ’s. Think he lives somewhere near Zimbabwe. At least that’s where I was when you told me to call him.”

The watcher’s mouth dropped open as if to comment, then he snapped it shut. He opened it again, poised to speak. Closed it once more.

“Uh, Xander,” Buffy remarked as her watcher floundered like a guppy. “I think you broke Giles.”

“Havin’ a Boo Radley moment, are we?” asked Spike with a smirk.

“A rather spectacular one, actually,” Giles acknowledged. “Xander, I haven’t spoken to Patrick Strum in more than a decade. Are you quite sure?”

Xander only nodded, shrugged, and stuffed another piece of crust into his mouth.

Giles looked around uneasily as the thought settled. “And this shaman...was it he who sent you back?”

“Um, well,” Xander considered, then shrugged again. “Guess so, in a roundabout way.”

“Harris?” Spike asked. “This shaman bloke...he didn’t happen to offer you a bit o’ Kool-Aid, did he? Give you a choice between a red n’ a blue pill?”

The boy rolled his eyes, but then froze, tiny movements in his eyebrows indicating he was actually pondering Spike’s question. “Actually, I guess I  _was_ kinda given a choice,” he finally admitted. “A little less suicidal Morpheus, though, and more...I don’t know...pre-boss power-up?”

“How much of a pre-boss power-up are we talkin’ here?” Spike asked. “End-of-the- _board_  boss or end-of-the- _game_  boss?”

“Oh, I’d say this one was definitely end-of-the-game,” the Whelp answered.

““I don’t get it. What’s the difference?” asked the Slayer. Her eyebrows were askew with confusion.

“Well, with the bosses at the end of a world or at the end of a level,” replied Tara, “you hit ’em a couple of times and they die. They’re easier to beat. So I guess they wouldn’t really require a whole lot of power.”

Willow glanced up at her girlfriend in surprise.

“What? I used to play Mario with my cousins.” Tara smiled before continuing. “It takes a  _whole_  lot more hits to kill the big boss and beat the game, though. You’d need a pretty big boost to finish the job without dying.”

Buffy considered. “Okay, that makes sense. So your time jump...that was the power up?”

“No, not exactly,” Xander said. “I actually got juiced a little before that. The jump was sort of a way to warp back to the beginning.” Looking pleased with the analogy he’d chosen for his explanation, he added, “And I didn’t have to give up the points or the experience we won beating all the bosses in between.”

“All the bo— Wait. Hang on there, horsey,” said the Slayer. She closed her eyes, raised her hand in a halting gesture. “You say you were in 2003, right?”

Spike watched Xander wait for Buffy to open her eyes before he nodded.

“And you jumped back after beating boss- _ES_?” She placed extra emphasis on the syllable pluralizing the word. “As in, more than one big bad, right?”

The boy nodded again.

“How many, Xander?”

“Oh, I don’t know, five or six, give or take the handful of little guys thrown in between,” he answered.

“Okay. And...we beat Glory?” Buffy’s question ended on an upswing, laced with hopefulness.

“Yeah, we did,” Xander affirmed. “And yeah, that means I know what she wants, and how it’s all gonna go down. I also know a few things Glory’s trying to keep secret that would poke some pretty big holes in her defense. The kinda stuff we didn’t know about last time until it was almost too late.”

That one surprised Spike, and he glanced at the Slayer. The expression on her face told him the thought of an easier Glory defeat was starting to eat away at her doubt in Harris’ story. He’d known she’d come around eventually, and he didn’t blame her initial hesitation. After all, he knew the Whelp was soundin’ and actin’ like a rat arsed lunatic.

But the more he thought about it….

Eight decades ago, a lucid Dru had warned him to be wary of Alisher’s folly. Eighty years later, the Whelp suddenly promoted himself from carpenter to time traveler, spouting stories about Alisher’s daughter making some big bad return.

The two were connected somehow, and it was enough to convince him that Harris was telling the truth about the rest.

To be sure, though, he asked, “And you’re sayin’ this somehow ties in with the Layla bird, eh?”

Xander nodded slowly, considering his words. “We made some...mistakes that we can’t make again. Ones that started a chain of events that just kept getting worse and worse.” He looked down at his lap. “I’m pretty sure it’s the whole reason I was sent back to  _this_  point in time.  _This_  is where the change has to be made. I think if we can take what the shaman told me, and use it to tweak what I remember from beating Glory, we can probably  avoid knocking over that first domino. ’Cause the one at the end of the line is the one that opens the door for Layla.”

“Aw, look,” said Spike, his voice all mock doting father. “Our wittle baby’s all growed up and concerned about savin’ the world. In’t he cute?”

“Shut up, Spike,” came Buffy’s and Xander’s voices in near-perfect unison.

Giles cleared his throat and pointed at the notepad in front of Dawn, nodding his thanks when the youngest in the group slid it across the table in his direction.

“Then I guess we had better get started,” the watcher said. He drew a pen out of his breast pocket and put it to the paper. “Xander, what exactly  _do_ you remember about fighting Glory?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter End Notes:
> 
> Thankfully, in tempestt’s original challenge, there were no stipulations about Xander keeping his timehop a secret. Because I just can’t see him managing to keep it to himself. Coming up with ways he’d go about proving he was from the future...that was kinda fun.
> 
> A few reference notes:
> 
> Loudun was the site of a supposed mass possession in the early 1600’s. A convent of French nuns alleged that they’d been visited and possessed by demons summoned by the town priest, Father Urbain Grandier. Spike refers to Aldous Huxley’s The Devils of Loudun, which details the aftermath of the faked (though real, of course, in my ‘verse) possessions.
> 
> Dawn’s under-bed library comes from two places of inspiration. First, when drafting this chapter, I had Never Leave Me (season 7) on in the background. I don’t know about you, but I crack up every single time I watch the scene where Spike breaks through the wall and grabs Andrew for a bite. I know it’s not supposed to be funny, but the dynamic between those two is always beyond hilarious, and in that scene in particular, Andrew’s face is a riot.
> 
> The second half of that inspiration comes from my own childhood. When I was a kid, and my mom was the computer teacher/librarian at my small school, I spent a lot of time bulldozing through the young adult section of the library. Sometimes I checked books out before I brought them home…sometimes not. I’d probably amassed several dozen before mom found the trove of unregistered library books hidden around my room. She nearly murdered me.
> 
> The backstory of Grandma Edna Fairweather Giles isn’t mine. It comes from a spin-off Buffyverse comic, Tales of the Vampires (April 2004). It’s basically a five-issue story arc about Edna that encompasses a whole bunch of littler stories told by Roche. Incidentally, one of these is the story of Dru’s rescue in Prague, and it’s a lovely read about Dru and Spike. The dialogue and artwork are simply stunning (if you don’t dwell on the non-Spuffy ship factor). Spike’s dedication to Dru is positively heart-wrenching.
> 
> “Boo Radley moment”comes from To Kill a Mockingbird (or, if you prefer, the 1993 film, Benny and Joon).
> 
> “Don’t call me Shirley,” in case you’ve been living under a rock, is from the 1980 film, Airplane:   
> “Surely you can’t be serious” / “I am serious...and don’t call me Shirley.”


End file.
